


Chosen One Island

by esama



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canonical Character Death, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-04-27 05:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14418228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: There's a deserted island. It's pretty chill.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread credit to nimadge

Harry has gone through and around the island couple of times before he runs into the other bloke. By that time he'd gotten to know the island pretty well – not that there's much there to get to know. All told, it's pretty small, even for a deserted island.

It’s about five hundred paces in length at its longest point and has about fifty trees growing on it – most of them palm trees, the rest of the trees he doesn't know, though couple of them might be avocado, judging by the fruits. Aside from the trees there's grasses and bushes and whatnot, none of which look very familiar, most of which surround the little misshapen pool that sits near the middle of the island. The little pool has crystal clear water in it, so there's that at least.

And all around in every direction he looks there nothing but ocean as far as the eye can see. Probably long past it too.

So it's not a very remarkable as desert islands go – not that he knows much about desert islands, of course, but going by what he remembers from movies and all… they tend to be big and lush and mysterious. This one is tiny and he can see everything about it with one glance, really. Once the initial excitement fades, it's bit of a let down really – there's nothing much there.

Which makes finding the bloke suddenly lying on the sand, in a spot Harry's pretty sure he'd already gone through before – walked over even, his footprints are still there – well, it's a bit exciting. Harry really had thought he'd be spending eternity all by himself at that point but no, apparently not.

The bloke wakes up before Harry gets to do more than give him a cursory glance over – older than him, short haired with a scar over his lips, dressed in jeans and white hoodie, doesn't look like anyone Harry knows though, which is both surprising and a bit reliving, all things considered. Could've been better, could've been a lot worse too.

Then there are two of them staring at each other in curious confusion

"... am I dead?" the bloke then asks in accented English. American?

"Yeah, probably," Harry says apologetically, leaning his elbows on his knees as he crouches by the man. "I reckon this is some form of Afterlife anyway – I died and turned up here, so…"

The American looks at him, then at the sky, then at the palm tree to the left of them. "Huh," he says then and just lays his head back down. "Is that ocean I hear?"

"Yeah. We're on an island," Harry agrees and like to the shoreline. It looks pretty enticing, actually – long slow slope of pure white sand into beautiful green blue waters, spotted by seashells and crabs skittering by here and there… it looks like a postcard.

"The Afterlife is… an island?" the American wonders, looking up at the sky.

"I have no idea, mate," Harry admits and plonks to sit down on the sand, stretching his legs out with a sigh. "Like I said, I just woke up here. I'm Harry, by the way."

"Desmond," the American answers, and after a moment of staring at the sky, he sits up. Together they stare at the shoreline. "So, how'd you… you know, die? If it's not rude to ask."

Harry shrugs. Dying put things into a weird perspective – he's been rather pleasantly calm about the whole thing and there doesn't seem to be much point in panicking about it now. "I got killed – I got myself killed," he amends and then tilts his head back. "There were reasons – me dying made people safer. It was worth it."

Desmond looks at him oddly. "A sacrifice, huh?"

"I suppose," Harry agrees with a shrug. "You?"

"Same, I guess. Human sacrifice to save the world or whatever."

Harry blinks and tilts his chin back down to look at Desmond. "Huh," he says and they just look at each other curiously. "Did yours work?" Harry asks then.

"... Yeah, I think so, " Desmond says. "I hope so," he then amends and frowns. "I hope I didn't just make things worse anyway."

"Yeah. Reckon that's all you can really hope for, when the act of trying to save people gets you killed," Harry mutters.

Desmond nods but says nothing to it – not that there is much to say. Then he clears his throat. "I'm thirsty. Any chance of that," he nods at the ocean, "being good for drinking?"

Harry considers it. Dead man getting thirsty, that's something. "Doubt it, but let's find out," he suggests and the get up to test it.

The ocean is salty it turns out – but it's fun to wade in and the water is pretty warm. They kick off their shoes and discard their socks and splash about for a bit with their trouser legs rolled up. Judging by the look on Desmond's face – curious and wistful and little hit bitter – he hasn't ever gotten a chance to splash about on a beach either.

"Let me guess – sheltered childhood?" Harry asks, only he doesn't really mean _sheltered_.

"And after that years on the run," Desmond agrees, looking at him. "So this is some sort of paradise for lost chosen ones who get themselves killed in line of duty?"

Harry snorts at that. "Did you have a prophecy too?"

"I even had a _Prophet_ ," Desmond says wryly and reaches down to pick up something from the water. A seashell.

"I had a Seer," Harry says and kicks lightly at the water. "She wasn't much of a one though – aside from giving couple of prophecies, she couldn't do divination to save her life. It was hilarious actually, how seriously everyone took the prophecy considering what a fraud she was."

"A Seer," Desmond says and fits the seashell over his ear, listening to it. "That's a new one for me."

"How does it work with a prophet then?" Harry asks and gives him a look. The bloke is seriously listening to the seashell now. "In case you missed it, we're right next to an ocean," he says dryly and motions at the said ocean. "I don't think the seashell trick will work next to an actual ocean."

Desmond grins at that. "I think being dead releases me from restraints of being logical," he says. "Besides, what you hear in seashell is actually your blood coursing in your ears, and I can still hear that, ocean or no."

Harry shakes his head. Sure, why not, he thinks. "So, Prophet? How's that different from a Seer giving a prophecy?"

"No idea," Desmond admits and lowers the seashell. "He had a vision from long time ago, only it was aimed at me. He was just the messenger for message from the past, giving warnings about the future."

Harry blinks. "That sounds… confusing."

"It was actually disturbingly straightforward," Desmond admits. He sounds pretty bitter about it.

"Right," Harry says and shakes his head. Better not to poke that subject too hard, then. "Weren't you thirsty? There's a pond on the island – it looked like fresh water but I didn't actually try it."

"Nice. Lead the way."

They pick up their shoes and head to the shadow of the trees, where Harry shows Desmond to the puddle. Desmond makes a slight face at it but drinks from it anyway, kneeling down at the grassy bank and cupping his hands in the water, looking thoughtful.

"It's a pretty small island, huh," he comments as the water trickles from his hands back to the pool.

"Especially if we get more dead chosen ones here, yeah," Harry agrees while brushing sand off between his toes.

"Is that likely?" Desmond asks, glancing at him.

"You weren't here at first but then you sort of just appeared when I wasn't looking. So I'm guessing it's not impossible," Harry admits and looks at him. "Where did you die, by the way?"

"Near Turin, in New York. You?"

"Somewhere in Scotland," Harry says and shrugs. "In any case, nowhere near a place like this. Where do you reckon we are?"

"Hmm," Desmond answers and stands up from the edge of the pond. "Well, it looks tropical."

"No," Harry breathes. "Really? How did you figure that one out?"

Desmond looks at him. "Does being British make people automatically into sassy assholes?" he asks curiously.

"National disease I'm afraid," Harry says and snorts. "You know many British people then?"

"Just the one. Sassiest asshole I ever knew," Desmond says and peers at the trees. "Does afterlife have an actual physical location, though?" he asks then. "I always figured it would be, like… somewhere in cloudy heavens or whatever."

"Hmm, good point," Harry admits and looks around. Well, he'd be able to tell when – or if – night ever came. At least, if they were somewhere on Earth, he could probably pinpoint rough location by the stars. Maybe. He says as much to Desmond.

"I might be able to help with that," Desmond muses. "Maybe. We'll see. So what are we supposed to do until then, if night even is something that happens here?"

Harry scratches at his, forehead, looking around them. "Well I don't know about you, but I think I'd like to build a hammock."

Desmond stares at him for a moment and then rubs his hands dry against his jeans. "That," he says very deliberately. "Sounds like a great idea."

* * *

 

So they build hammocks – or rather they come into the conclusion that on the island there is nothing much to build hammocks with, really, and in the end Harry transfigures them hammocks from some palm fronds.

Desmond, it turns out, is not a wizard – or wasn't one, anyway, when alive. "What the hell was that?" the American laughs with disbelief as Harry waves his wand and turns the leafs into a tightly woven mats. "What is that, a magic wand?"

"Yeah," Harry answers obligingly and holds his wand out for inspection. "You've never seen one before?"

"I've seen supposedly magic artefacts, but they were a branch of sufficiently advanced technology, not like… actual _magic_ ," Desmond says. "Seriously, magic?"

In answer, Harry turns the mats into hammocks, with tightly woven green ropes for hanging them and all. "I thought you were a wizard too," Harry admits and hands one of the hammocks to Desmond. "Being a chosen one and all. If you're not a wizard, then what are you?"

"An Assassin."

Harry laughs.

Desmond doesn't look like he's joking though, there's no grin on his face, amused or sheepish or otherwise. He just looks at Harry with arched brows until he stops laughing awkwardly. "Blimey, I'm sorry – really?" Harry asks, blinking. "An assassin?"

Desmond shrugs. "I used to laugh about it too when I was a kid. It's okay."

Harry frowns a little at that – he's not a bloody kid… though Desmond is older, so from his point of view, maybe he is. Whatever. "So you… kill people?" Harry asks and makes a face. "No offence but that doesn't sound like something a chosen one should do."

Desmond gives him a look. "What did you do, then?"

"Went to school and tried to not get myself killed, mostly. Didn't really get around _doing_ much anything aside from that, to be honest. Assassinating people was definitely not part of the plan though."

"… I guess you are pretty young," Desmond murmurs with a slight frown and looks down at the hammock. "I didn't want to either," he admits. "I tried not to. Ran away, had a normal life – they came for me anyway and made me into an Assassin. When it's your destiny, it turns out you don't get much choice in the matter."

Harry doesn't know what to say to that, do he doesn't – taking the hammock he'd made instead and looking around for a good tree to pitch it on. After a moment Desmond does the same – they end up putting their hammocks up on same tree, with the other ends to other trees so that the hammocks make a sort of V-shape, facing the ocean. On silent agreement they lay down with their heads towards the middle tree – so that they're facing away from each other.

It takes a bit of trial and error to figure out a way to lie on the things without falling, but once they manage it… well it's very novel.

"It was like this whole _thing_ , too, " Desmond says after a long period of silence. "The Brotherhood of Assassins. They had rules and edicts and stuff. My parents were in it – I was born into it. It was a bit like birthright… or a cult."

"A secret society, " Harry guesses.

"Yeah, I guess."

"The Wizarding World is a bit like that too – you were either born with magic or not," Harry says, tilting his head to look at the ocean. So far the hammock isn't the most comfortable thing he's ever laid on bit maybe it'll grow on him. "My parents were both magical and I got it from them."

Desmond doesn't answer immediately, considering the words in silence. "Could you choose to not be magical?" he asks then.

"I don't think so. It's in my blood."

"... I think being an Assassin night be in mine," Desmond says and then sighs. "No – I know it is."

Harry clears his throat. "Have you, um… killed people, then?"

"Yeah."

"… A lot of people?"

"I didn't exactly stop to count them… but yeah."

Harry doesn't really know what to say to that either. In all the things Hermione had shoved at him after they'd found out about the prophecy, chosen ones all seemed like paragon of virtue. Messiah characters who did their best and then usually got themselves killed to save humanity or the world or whatever. A Saviour who's also an _assassin_ seems like bit of a paradox.

"So," Desmond says, obviously to change the subject. "Magic. Does that mean you can turn people into frogs?"

"Frogs are a bit boring, but yeah, sure," Harry says and tilts his head back to look at him. Desmond has one arm stretched out, sleeve shoved up past his elbow – there's something strapped to his inner arm. "Do you want a demonstration?"

"Can you do animals other than frogs?" Desmond asks, tilting his hand back, the heel of his hand towards the sky.

"Sure. Do you have something in mind? It's probably not how you imagine it though, just fair warning. It's actually kind of awful, being turned into something by someone else."

Desmond hums at that, thoughtful. There's a twang of metal and suddenly there's a blade protruding from the thing on Desmond's arm – sticking out from just under his wrist. Harry arches his brows and then the blade is gone again.

"An eagle," Desmond says. "Can you turn me into an eagle?"

* * *

 

Desmond makes a pretty unnerving eagle. He takes to it instantly and without hesitation, and Harry doesn't need to do more than look at him to know that something about him is… different.

Of course all human transfigurations are a bit different – everyone reacts to it in their own unique way. How people get transfigured tends to be distinctive to the person being transfigured too – they tend to still look a little like themselves. Everything Harry had ever gotten transfigured into had ended up with his scar and markings for his eyeglasses for example and they all tended to be black furred and scaled and feathered.

But still, when you transfigure a person into an animal, that person doesn't keep their mind. It's not animagus transformation after all – when a person gets transformed into an animal by an outside force, they get transfigured body and mind. Nothing human remains. Human minds just don't fit animal brains without thorough training.

Harry can tell that Desmond the eagle is still _Desmond_ though – or at least in some control of himself. He doesn't immediately fly off for one. And once he has flown off, he eventually comes back when Harry calls him.

And it's really something to have big golden eagle like him landing on your arm. Harry is kind of used to it – Hedwig used to be pretty big in comparison to him when he'd still been eleven – but an owl is an owl, they're generally amiable towards people. Eagles on other hand…

"Usually when you turn someone into an animal they tend to go a bit mental," Harry admits once he's turned Desmond back into a human. "I honestly expected you to try and scratch my eyes out."

"Huh," Desmond answers, staring at his hands – no longer covered in feathers. "I'm used to inhabiting bodies not my own. I guess it helped."

Harry gives him a curious look at that but Desmond seems a bit lost waving his fingers around. "Was it everything you hoped it would be, then?" he asks finally.

"... Yeah."

That's a bit of a surprise but okay. "Happy to help, I suppose. Are you alright?"

Desmond looks up. "That's magic," he says a little hazily.

"Yep," Harry agrees. "With wand waving and spell casting and all that. Are you alright?"

Desmond blinks and looks down at his hands again. "Huh," he say and turns his hands, as if expecting them to sprout feathers again.

Guess it's a bit shocking for a muggle. Harry lets out a little chuckle and pats him on the shoulder. "Give it a moment to settle in I guess," he says and then stretches out his arms. "I don't think we're going anywhere, so you have all the time in the world."

And then his stomach lets out a rumble.

Harry frowns and lowers his hands, a little confused. He's not… quite hungry, but he's sort of hungry. His belly feels empty in the way that belies soon to be hunger. That's… interesting and unexpected.

Getting thirsty is one thing, could be just habit. But hunger too?

"A weird question," Harry says, rubbing a hand over his throat and feeling himself swallow. "How embodied do you feel?"

Desmond looks up, confused. "What?" he asks. "Because of the eagle thing?"

"No, well… yes, that too – you should be fine but if you aren't let me know, alright? But also…" Harry makes a face. "I'm starting to feel a little hungry," he admits. "Which, if this is Afterlife… is a little weird, don't you think?"

Desmond blinks at him. "Now that you mention it," he says. "I need to take a piss."

"Nice," Harry says, making a face. Desmond rolls his eyes and then looks away, frowning – taking in the island again. Harry does the same, tugging idly at the collar of his T-shirt.

"Can you starve to death if you're already dead?" Desmond wonders.

"How about we don't find out, and instead make sure it doesn't come to that?" Harry says. "Let's see if there's anything here to eat."

"You can't just magic food out of nowhere?" Desmond asks, arching a brow.

"I'm a _wizard_ , not a god. I could transfigure some rocks and twigs to appear food like, but you'd still be eating rocks and twigs at the end of the day."

"Hm. Good to know."

* * *

 

Their haul of food from the island is pretty minimal. The avocados – which turn out are indeed avocados – aren't ripe yet. There are some yams and such, at least they think they're yams, growing on the island but they look a bit off and neither dares to try them just yet. Then it turns out that in one of the bushes, there are pineapples growing from prickly sort of plant.

"Is that seriously how pineapples grow," Harry wonders, eying the bush. It's just… one fruit crowning the whole prickly affair. Seems like a lot of effort for one fruit, really.

"Yeah," Desmond agrees, crouching by the bush. "I don't think it's ripe either, though – it looks pretty small."

Harry tilts his head, wondering if he can speed things along with magic. There are spells for it… but Herbology had never been his best subject. "Reckon we can eat coconuts?" he suggests.

"Hmm, maybe," Desmond answers and looks up to him. "Do you think you could make me a bow and arrow?"

Harry arches a brow. "Do you know how to make a bow and arrow?" he asks dubiously. "What would you even use them on – there's no animals here."

Desmond scratches at his arm, the tattoo he has on it – big tribal looking affair. "There's fish," he says and nods to the shore not far from them – it's not far from them wherever they go on the island, after all. "I think if I had something to shoot them with, I could catch us a few."

Harry arches a brow and then folds his arms, thinking about it. "I could maybe do some fishing with a spell," he says consideringly. Throw a _bombarda_ or two into the water, he'd get something in the end… though whether anything of the fish survived the process, that was a different thing. "I can probably make a fish hook – a line would be trickier though."

Desmond rolls to his feet. "How about a knife?" he asks. "Throwing knives, I could do some fishing with those, maybe"

Harry nods slowly. "Yeah, maybe. Let's gather up some rocks and I'll try."

It's bit like being back in class, it turns out. Turning a pebble into a sharp stone knife, Harry can do that – turn it into a knife that Desmond is satisfied with, that takes bit more effort.

"I have to be able to throw them straight," Desmond says and then demonstrates by throwing one of Harry's knives towards a collapsed, dead palm tree nearby. It misses the mark entirely, swinging madly as it flies. "Can you make them a bit more blade heavy? And no crossguard, that just throws the balance off."

"You are so picky," Harry mutters, but transfigures a few more – and a few more after that, trying to make the additions and Desmond wants. It takes some dozen awkwardly transfigured stone knives before Desmond starts hitting the dead tree with every throw. Harry has to admit – it's pretty impressive.

He could totally _destroy_ the tree with a single spell, but watching Desmond line it precisely and neatly with stone knives is something.

"Right," Desmond says then, gathering his new stone knives, looking satisfied. "Off to fishing I go."

"Good luck," Harry says and scratches at his neck. "Guess I'll make a campfire in the meantime."

* * *

 

It's getting dark by the time Desmond comes back, with several dead fish hanging from a stripped bit of a branch. Harry has by that time not only made them a campfire by their hammocks, but he's transfigured some more rocks, turning the campfire into a makeshift oven with a stone stove and everything. Well it's more a stone hot plate, really – whole thing being stone it wouldn't transfer much heat even if they had a pot to put it on. But they could cook things directly on it, anyway.

"Oh, nice," Harry says when Desmond shows him his catch.

"Thanks," Desmond says and sits down on the sand. He's already gutted and cleaned them up it looks like, all their bellies are cut open. "Does that work?" he asks, motioning to the stone stove.

"One way to find out," Harry says and together they go about trying to cook the fish. They end up burning their skins into the stone which would be a bother to clean if magic wasn't on the table, but as experiments go, Harry has had worse ones.

Unsalted, unseasoned fish is pretty bland though. They eat them from plates made of leaves, mostly because Harry forgot to make them plates and is too lazy to bother with it now.

"We need salt," Harry says, eating awkwardly with his fingers while Desmond uses a couple of sticks like chopsticks. "In case fish is going to become a common food item."

"Chance is it will," Desmond says, carefully taking a bit of fish in the sticks and eating it. He makes a face. "I think you can get salt out of seawater by evaporation. That's how they do it on all the documentaries – big pools with brine sitting on them, waiting for the water to evaporate."

Harry nods slowly. "So, if we boiled water out of some sea water…"

"Yeah, maybe," Desmond says and looks at the island. "Be a bit of waste of wood though. Doesn't look like we have that many trees here."

"I don't actually need wood to make fire. Or heat stuff up," Harry admits. "I could probably make a stone vat and put a heating charm on it or something, evaporate water out of it that way."

Desmond blinks and looks at him. "Magic is _cheating_ ," he decides. "Any chance you could rig up a water distillery that way? Siphon the evaporating water out and into a container? The pool is well and good, but distilled water…"

"I can just make water with a spell," Harry says almost apologetically and looks around for a stone to use. He turns another pebble into a rough cup and then aims his wand at it. " _Aquamenti_ ," he says, and water spout shoots from the tip of his wand to fill the cup.

" _Cheating_ ," Desmond says accusingly. "I thought you couldn't make things from nothing."

"I think it takes water from nearby and transports it, it doesn't really create it," Harry says and holds the cup out to him. "It's nice and clean, though, so there is that."

Desmond accepts the cup and takes a sip. He makes a face. "Okay, what else can you do with magic?"

Harry leans back a little, settling his leaf of fish on his knee and considers it. "So, you've seen transfiguration – that's changing something into something else. If the material of the end result is the same, that's permanent – so the knives will stay knives, but if I turn you into a bird again, you'll turn back eventually because the materials are different, it doesn't stick the same way…"

They end up talking magic until night finally falls, the sun sets and the stars start shining overhead. It's pretty nice, sitting in the warm darkness by their campfire, eating the last of their fish and then watching the moon rise above the waves, which are growing quieter and quieter and finally… go completely still. The ocean is like a mirror, and the light the moon casts on his looks like a bridge of light.

Eventually, Harry and Desmond fall quiet and in silence they get up and walk out from under the canopy of palm trees, to take a look at the night sky, taking in the constellations.

"Okay, those are definitely familiar looking stars," Desmond pronounces.

"Yeah," Harry agrees, making a face up at them. "Somewhere near Equator, do you reckon?"

"Northern side of it, yeah," Desmond says and points to the North Star, sitting pretty near the horizon. "Twenty degrees maybe?"

"Hm," Harry agrees and rests a hand on his hip. "That's latitude. Now how the hell do we tell the longitude?"

Desmond checks his watch. "Well, according to this it's two a.m. in New York, so I have no idea."

Harry snorts and takes out his own pocket watch, giving it a cursory glance. Then he frowns. According to it, it's close to midnight, which actually seems a bit accurate… but it also is apparently fourteenth of February which is wrong. The rest of the hands are just completely off – easy way to tell when your watch is bollocksed up when the big planets are all out of alignment.

Harry eyes the Pluto, Neptune, Saturn and Uranus hands for a moment, does a bit of maths in his head and makes a face. "Well according to this it's the 18th century," he says. "So I have no idea either."

"What?" Desmond asks and leans in. "What the hell is that?"

"It's a pocket watch," Harry says and points at the Neptune hand. "This should be somewhere in here," he points at different spot in the watch. "It only goes around the watch once in every hundred and sixty four years or so, so it being here is bit weird. Also when Pluto hand moves at all, that's just scary. It only goes around once in every two hundred and forty eight years, so…"

Desmond looks at him suspiciously. "How long do wizards live?" he asks slowly.

"Well I lived seventeen years, so don't ask me. I have no idea," Harry answers and gives the watch a look. "I think this thing might be broken. Or we've time travelled."

Desmond folds his arms, looking at him and then at the watch. "You know, I'm almost more inclined to believe time travel," he says and looks up to the sky.

Harry looks up at him. Standing right next to him, Desmond is whole lot taller than he is – it's a lot of looking up. "Why?" he asks slowly.

"It would just make sense in the grand scheme of my life," Desmond says and then sighs. "Eighteenth century, huh."

"Give me a moment and I can probably tell you the exact year. And date," Harry says, still looking at him. "Time travel? You too?"

Desmond looks at him. " _You_ too?" he asks, arching his brows.

"It was just few hours," Harry admits with a shrug. "You?"

"Well," Desmond says, scratching at his cheek. "That depends. Do you know what _genetic memory_ is?"

It's a long and even to Harry a pretty damn fantastical tale, of futuristic technology and ancient civilisation and apparently cosmic foretelling. And yeah, genetic memories of ancestors who lived hundreds of years ago, whose lives Desmond had lived through in a machine called the Animus.

So that's how you get an _assassin chosen one_ , huh, Harry thinks, scratching at the back of his head as they lay on their hammocks and Desmond's words eventually wind to a halt, the whole confusing tale told, full with evil corporations and world ending solar events.

"So the assassins," Harry says. "That's been happening for a long while, then."

"Thousands of years from what I could tell," Desmond agrees. "It's swung from side to side along the centuries, it gets almost stomped out and nearly extinguished and then someone starts building again from ground up. Something about the Creed keeps it going, I think."

"The creed?"

"Nothing is True, Everything is Permitted," Desmond says and sighs. "Which everyone interprets a bit differently from what I can tell. But anyway, it's bit like time travel, how I relieved their lives, assimilated their knowledge and abilities."

"Huh," Harry answers. "So, being back few hundred years, that's not even surprising to you, is it?"

"At this point, my tolerance of bullshit is at all time high," Desmond admits with what sounds like a yawn and shifts on his hammock, making the ropes creak as the hammock swings from side to side. "Even a wizard and magic isn't that big of a surprise now."

"Huh," Harry says again, resting his hands on his stomach and staring at the canopy of palm trees. "We might not be dead," he says then.

"Mmhmm," Desmond agrees.

"Bloody hell," Harry says.

"Mmhmm," Desmond agrees, slower, sleepier.

"What are we going to do if we're not dead?"

Desmond doesn't answer – tilting his head back, Harry can see he's fallen asleep, his head cushioned in his bundled up hoodie. Harry eyes him for a moment and then looks back up at the canopy of palm fronds above them, the stars peeking past them.

Time travel to a deserted island with an assassin chosen one. Bloody hell.

Even his _death_ can't be normal at this point, can it?


	2. Chapter 2

Desmond takes few running steps, splashing into the water and then diving head first under the waves. It is by far the greatest feeling he's had in a long while, maybe ever, to dive under the crystal-clear waters, his stomach brushing the white sand underneath before he comes up to the surface and begins making his way forward, bobbing on the warm waves.

He's swam in the waters of Arno river in Florence, in the filthy canals of Venice, in the infested waters of the Tiber River and in countless icy mountain streams and valley lakes of Boston area – all in his head maybe, but the experience was real to someone. None of it comes even close to this, though – salt water and soft sand and sun. It's as close to perfect as he can imagine anything being. Even the waters of Constantinople weren't this pleasant.

Dying for the Earth, it turns out, comes with some fine perks.

"Aren't you bothered at all by the fact that we're here, as opposed to wherever we should be?" Harry asks later, as Desmond heads back to the shore with newly caught fish hanging off a loop he'd made of his shoelaces.

"Where I was before was a cave," Desmond shrugs. "I'd much rather take this."

"And you don't feel guilty at all about being here, and not there, doing your duty?"

Desmond looks at the kid and then sets the fish down on the now cold stone stove, to be cooked later. "My duty was lying there remembering things that never happened to me in a great historic treasure hunt. Here I'm actually doing things, experiencing them for myself. It's not much of a choice for me," Desmond admits. "You?"

Harry pokes the sand with his toes, burying his feet ankle deep. "There was a battle – war, really. My friends were out there fighting."

Desmond looks him over, not sure what to say. Harry is what, seventeen? Seventeen and already fighting a war. Though then again, Ezio had been seventeen when he'd started killing people and Connor had been younger when he'd lost his mother and Altaïr… Desmond can only imagine.

At Harry's age, he himself ran away from home, too – and considering the consequences…

"You said you dying made people safer," Desmond says, squeezing water out of the legs of his jeans.

Harry sighs and lays down on his back on the sand. "It was supposed to. And I was fine with it – dying for it. But being alive afterwards and not out _there,_ helping… I don't know. Feels a bit like I've ran away in the middle of everything. Like I maybe abandoned everyone."

Desmond sighs and sits down on the sand. " _If only I'd possessed the humility to think to myself… I have seen enough for one life; I have done my part_ ," he quotes and Harry looks up, frowning. Desmond shrugs. "One of my ancestors said that. If I learned anything from him, it's that… it's okay being done with your part. History will keep on marching regardless."

"But what if your part isn't done? How do you know when it's done?"

"Are there others out there, ready to pick up the slack where you left it off?" Desmond asks and Harry frowns. "Then I think it's fine, dropping out of the race."

Harry says nothing, eyeing him and then looking away and up at the sky. "What do you do once you've fulfilled your destiny?"

"Live out the rest of your life to the best of your ability, I guess," Desmond says and looks at the ocean. "There are worse places than this to try it in."

"I kind of wanted to live out my life next to my friends," Harry admits quietly. "With them or not at all."

Desmond sighs – nothing he can say or do about that. "Well, if you have a way back to them, go for it. But count me out," he says. "I'd rather stay here."

Harry blinks and looks at him, his glasses a little askew. "Really?"

Desmond shrugs. "I've seen enough for one life," he repeats and gets up with a stretch. "I've done my part."

Harry says nothing to that, and with a nod Desmond heads off, to walk a slow and lazy circuit around the island. He's already seen all of it, but that doesn't mean he's tired of it. Not by a long shot.

* * *

 

The hardest thing any Assassin Desmond has ever been had to learn was that, "It isn't up to me to save the world."

Desmond had never thought it was up to him to save the world – the whole idea had seemed ludicrous, really, and  he'd rejected it offhand. He'd chosen the simple life instead. A shit job and a shit apartment, and for nine years he'd been normal… until it suddenly _was_ up to him to save the world.

Talk about irony.

Harry doesn't seem like he ever not known – the fate of the world had always been on him. Or, at least, it's been on him long enough to have settled and made itself home. So, now he has harder time shaking it off than Desmond ever did. Death would've been a  great get-out-of-jail-free card – but now that Harry knows he's actually alive… there's that weight, coming down again.

Poor kid. It makes the colossal fuck-up Desmond had committed running away seem almost like the freedom it was supposed to be.

Still, there's not much Desmond can do for Harry – like his ancestors, Harry too probably has to figure out that lesson on his own, no matter how uncomfortable and awkward it is.

It's kind of nice to know there are some things even wizards can't cheat with, though.

* * *

 

The next day, while Desmond is considering the palm trees – more specifically their fronds, wondering if they'd make good roofing material for a potential shelter… Harry sits beside him with a sigh.

"So how do you make a still?" the kid asks.

"A still? " Desmond asks and immediately thinks alcohol – which actually for future might not be a bad idea… but no, of course not for alcohol. "Right – that depends on what you can make, I guess. Can you do glass maybe?"

"Permanent glass you mean?" The fact that Harry has to think about it is weirdly reassuring. "Glass is made of sand, right? Then maybe," he says and looks at the sandy beaches pretty much all around them. "I could definitely try. What kind of glass though? Like a cup or a flask or...

"Could you make a pane of glass?" Desmond says and turns to the sand, wiping down a smooth area to draw some sketches on. "This is how basic solar still works…"

Harry listens to the explanation like a man on a mission and then sets out to try and make them some glass to use. Desmond watches him for a while as the kid mutters spells at fistfuls of white sand, trying to change it into glass – doesn't look like he has much experience with it, though.

"I can turn an animal into a water goblet, but a pile of sand…" Harry mutters. "How is glass made the muggle way?"

"The _what_ way?" Desmond asks incredulously.

"Mundane. Non magical – you now, normal?"

"Rude," Desmond says with a frown.

Harry shrugs. "I didn't make the word up, sorry. So how do they turn sand into glass?"

"The sand is heated up in a kiln until it melts and the it's made into shape. Haven't you ever heard of glass blowing?"

Harry makes a face. "My muggle education was a bit limited," he mutters. "Melted. Hmm. Okay then."

What results is a couple of burns and minor explosion on the beach and a lot of smoke, but in the end Harry does manage to make some glass, even if it ends up a bit grainy. It's more than Desmond could have done, so he doesn't really feel inclined to criticise the end result. The other parts of the still are easier – Harry seems to have stone working down by now. He makes a vat of stone, fits the slightly misshapen glass panels over it, with a stone pot ready to catch the condensation.

"And now I just heat the vat? " Harry asks after they're done adding some salt water to it.

Desmond shrugs. He'd never actually made a still for purifying water. It was just one of those hypothetical survival scenario skills they learned about at the Farm when he was a kid – just in case. "I suppose," he says. "Usually these things work by sun's heat alone, I think – magic is a bit new to me. The idea is for the evaporation to gather on the cooler glass as condensation and trickle down to the pot, so… I guess heating the vat will make it work faster."

Harry hums and casts a spell. It's a bit freaky how the stone vat becomes immediately warm to the touch. "And if I add a cooling charm on the glass, it will condense faster – like on glass of cold drink in hot weather?"

"Maybe but you might just end up –"

Too late. Harry casts the spell – and the grainy glass explodes.

* * *

 

While Harry works on the glass-still number two, Desmond explores the island a bit more. There's not much there, but what's there is interesting. Sandy soil and wild plants – and that little puddle in the middle of the island. Is it from a spring or collected rainwater or…? He decides he'd better find out, just in case. If it's rainwater, collecting in some reservoir underground, that might mean the island is too unstable for heavier building – but if there's a natural spring on the island... that could only mean good things for their future there.

You can't water crops with seawater, after all – and he'd really like to eat other things than just fish in the future. Just for scurvy's sake if not for any other reason.

So while Harry works on the glass and the still, Desmond makes a makeshift shovel out of the trunk of a dead tree, and starts digging in the wet mud. A lot of _increasingly_ wet mud. It's the sort of menial physical labour he hasn't done in years – the sort he used to hate. It's weirdly gratifying now.

"I think I have it now," Harry says, coming to sit on the edge of the pit Desmond is digging. "What are you doing?"

"Digging a well, I hope – rather than my grave," Desmond says with a sigh and stretches his back. So this is what _back-breaking work_ means. "You got the still working?"

"I think so," Harry says and peers down. "A well," he repeats. "You really mean to stay here, huh."

Desmond leans onto his awkward wooden shovel and looks up at him. "Is that a bad thing?"

Harry says nothing, taking his glasses off and cleaning them with the hem of his too big T-shirt. "I don't know," he says then. "I guess not."

Desmond considers the kid for a moment and then goes to climb out of the pit. "If you wanna leave, I'm not going to stop you. I just don't know if there's any other place to even go to, if I'm honest. And if your watch is right…"

"It might be just broken," Harry says and looks at the pit with a frown. Then he sighs. "I don't think it is though. I tried fixing it and nothing happened."

"Fixing it – like with a spell?"

"Yeah. Reparo."

"... nice," Desmond says, swearing he's never going to get used to magic. "Well," he says, but then isn't sure how to continue, how to comfort the kid.

Harry had seemed pretty calm about the whole thing until he figured out he wasn't dead and thus freed from all earthly obligations, after all. Now, the stress of a Saviour figure is there, and judging by how Harry is going about it, he's very familiar with it. Desmond, on the other hand, had never been the most dutiful sort of guy – he has no idea how to deal with this.

It's making him feel a bit selfish, how little he reallys thinking about all the things he'd left behind, the people who would probably keep on fighting the good fight without him. He'd died, though – so doesn't he deserve this freedom?

Doesn't Harry?

Judging by looks of it, the kid doesn't seem to think so.

Then Harry sighs and shakes his head. "So," he says. "You know how to build stills and dig wells. Any chance you know how to build a house too?"

* * *

 

Magic is such cheat – it is also incredibly handy.

If it was just Desmond on the island, he'd be satisfied with just a wood and straw hut, basically, something with a makeshift roof and bed that kept his body off the ground – that would probably be as much as he could do on his own. But with Harry and the magical cheat at his disposal…

With Harry's abilities they have access to materials not actually present on the island – or rather, they are present, but Harry can make them _better_. He can turn broken bits of branches into solid logs and pebbles into serviceable bricks and with what Desmond knows about construction, they even get concrete going. All it takes is rocks, sand and a whole lot of seashells.

"Concrete is ancient?" Harry asks, confused, while Desmond explains the process of making lime.

"What do you think all those ancient monuments are built from and with?" Desmond asks, arching a brow. "Roman concrete is literally stable of antiquity."

"Huh. It just always seemed like one of those muggle things to me – stuff only possible with muggle technology and muggle chemistry," Harry answers, making a face, as they watch the seashells melt. "Concrete is such a modern thing, you know? I didn't know it was made with seashells either. That's kind of wicked."

"Limestone usually – but we don't have any here, so… seashells," Desmond says while pouring more seashells into a stone crucible Harry had made for him. Thankfully, there were a lot of seashells to pick up on the island at least. "You burn them, turn it into quicklime, then you slake it with water, then mix it with aggregates, and tadaah, you have concrete. Or, in our case, mortar."

"Huh," Harry answers. "You know a lot about this, huh."

"One of my ancestors had a weird quest to renovate Rome and all of its ancient monuments," Desmond shrugs. "You learn a lot about ancient construction methods, rebuilding an aqueduct. Alright, now, can you burn them up?"

Harry turns the crucible into a furnace with a few spells. Soon there's a fire blazing away on the shells, burning without any other source. While the shells burn, they start plotting out where to build a house, and how to build it.

The idea is to make a solid concrete flooring – they have more stone and sand than they have wood, and neither feels like cutting down the few trees they do have. And since they're going to make a stone floor, they might as well make stone pillars as well, to preserve the wood. And stone walls. And roof, that might have to be made of palm fronds, thatch style or…

"Or if we can find us some clay around there, we could make a tiled roof," Desmond murmurs, while they're plotting out where to build the foundations. "Well I suppose we could make roof tiles from concrete too, though we might run out before we finish…"

"You know, I don't think this is how desert island survival is supposed to go," Harry says, eying the floor plan they're building. Square house for now, not a terribly big one – it would be the simplest to build, after all. "I thought we'd just build a shack and then have it blown away by winds."

Desmond shrugs. He has a bit too much renaissance in him to contend with a _shack_. "If we had more wood and a source of thatch, I could build a longhouse," he says. "But, honestly, I want something bit more permanent."

"I'm not complaining," Harry says. "By all means, let's build a stone house." Then he hums consideringly. "I could probably make glass tiles now," he then suggests. "Or like… partially melted sand tiles."

Desmond looks at him. "Huh," he says. "Yeah, okay, let's do that."

* * *

 

Magic is like having a cheat code to the universe. Harry can summon things to them, he can turn little bit of something into _more_ of it, and he can just bypass the whole process of hand crafting and firing things and just wave a wand and be done with it, the end result ready in a split of a second. It's a bit like reality has suddenly gone on creative mode and they can just… do stuff without the constraint of _laws of nature_.

Desmond, once he's sure Harry doesn't mind, takes full advantage of it. They extend the concrete supply to its limits, and then turn larger pieces of rocks found around the island into sizable bricks and slates and like, so they have a serviceable sum of construction materials.

"Do you want to set the cornerstone?" Desmond asks.

"I'm setting all the stones, though," Harry says, giving him a look as he floats the rather massive stone bricks around. "You're just standing there pointing."

"Yeah, but the cornerstone is special. It's the first stone – every other is laid according to how it's laid. The most important piece of rock on the house."

"Well, in that case," Harry says. "Reckon I should put it in the corner, then?"

Which is what he does, though Desmond has to guide him on how to place it. The kid gets the idea of construction pretty fast, though, and while he starts laying out the stones for the rubble stone foundation, Desmond enforces it with handfuls of mortar to keep everything hopefully in its place. It's labour-intensive, even with magic – but it's something else, to be building a house with his own two hands rather than watch it being built super fast in memory.

And it seems to keep Harry's mind off the guilt and constraint of conscience, so there's that too.

It takes them couple of days to lay the rocks of the foundation, all told. Most of the work is done by Harry and magic, sure, but it's still a lot of work. Into the foundations goes a whole lot of sand, which Harry packs hard with some impact spells – probably partially cooking it along the way – and then they cover that with the slates and some more mortar, which with magic and some actual handiwork turns up actually pretty smooth and polished – if a bit cold. Wooden flooring would've been warmer – but carpets are still a possibility, maybe. With magic, you never seem to know what is and isn't possible.

In the end, it's a damn fine accomplishment for two guys stuck on a deserted island.

"Next up, pillars and a fireplace" Desmond says, walking the surprisingly smooth lines of the foundations.

"No, next up a break," Harry decides, stretching. "I've been floating slates about all day, I'm all sweaty. I need a wash."

* * *

 

The swimming is never not going to be lovely. Harry is a bit shyer about it – he is a teenager, after all – but Desmond takes every opportunity and excuse to take a dive in the ocean. Most of it he does while fishing, of course, but once or twice a day he might just head off to explore, for no other reason than because the ocean happens to be there.

They're pretty close to the coral reef on their little island. It's not a big one, just few hundred feet of red and yellow growths jutting up from the ocean floor, with thousands of colourful fish flickering about. It's something else, to dive down there and just watch it all happen, watch the fish swim about, the ocean waves tug and pull at the seaweeds and other plants.

It's peaceful, down there – so much so, that Desmond thinks he's accidentally going through some breathing training, just to watch it all. He makes it a point to not fish there, though – he doesn't want to disturb the ecosystem or scare the fish away. He'd really like to have some swimming gear, though, and just spend a few hours at a time down there.

Then it turns out Harry can make unlimited air supply with a spell.

"You tell me this now," Desmond says flatly.

"Well, I didn't know the coral reef looked like _that_ ," Harry says defensively while wading out of the water and heading for their hammocks, where they'd left their clothes. "Just let me grab my wand and I'll cast bubble heads on us and then we can go back."

"Magic is _cheating_ ," Desmond calls after him, to which Harry just waves a dismissive hand.

Really, the kid worries him sometimes. The whole concept of wizardry worries him. One would think it would have setbacks – like the Pieces of Eden with their corrupting influence and all that. But no, it doesn't seem to have any setbacks or costs – Harry just throws spells around like it's as easy as breathing. It's just… it's cheating.

Bubble head charms are awesome though, so he doesn't feel like objecting much more than that. Unlimited air supply – and all without having to lug around several pounds of breathing gear – opens up a whole new world around them. As it turns out, there is lot more to be found down on the ocean floor, when you don't have to worry about drowning to death while exploring it.

Like that they end up finding not only another small reef of coral, but a whole lot more shells to use, some actual limestone  too, and eventually… a shipwreck.

 _Several_ shipwrecks even.

Well, if there were any doubts about the time they were in before… they were put to rest by the seaweed-infested wooden sailing ships resting on the ocean floor, with cannons on their decks and barrels and _treasure chests_ in their hold.

* * *

 

They end up setting the house construction aside in order to build a raft. It's just the easiest way to get stuff out of the shipwrecks – to have something to carry them to the shore with. Again, Harry makes building the raft entirely too easy – but as long as they don't have to chop down any innocent palm trees…

"Now this feels like a deserted island adventure," Harry says, as they haul up the first chests from the nearest shipwreck. "You think there's actual treasure inside it?"

"I wouldn't get your hopes up," Desmond says warningly. "It's probably just old clothes and stuff. If it was treasure it would be lot heavier."

"Not sure what we could do with treasure anyway," Harry muses. "Some more clothes to wear would be cool too."

Considering the state of Harry's clothes – hand-me-downs all too big and hanging awkwardly on him… yeah. Desmond wouldn't mind something to make shorts out of either – he hasn't dared to maim his only pair of jeans and boxers aren't exactly designed to stick to your ass underwater.

Hauling themselves up on their awkward raft, Desmond takes one of his stone knives and starts forcing the rusted up lock open. It takes only a good whack and then the lock breaks apart, and they can open the chest.

It's surprisingly dry inside – dry and filled with clothing.

"Oh, nice," Harry says, taking out a fancy looking jacket from it. It's dark green with golden pattern on the lapels, all sorts of historical and colonial with the patterns around the buttons.

"Very pirate," Desmond says, bracing himself on the edge of the raft while Harry stands up to pull the fancy coat on. Desmond snorts – it's a little big on the kid. "It suits you," he says, amused.

"I'm keeping it," Harry decides, grinning. "Green is absolutely my colour. Anything else usable in there?"

"Linens, under clothes – how do you feel about breeches?" Desmond asks and pulls them out. "Actually if these fit me I might call dibs."

"I don't even know what breeches are," Harry admits and leans in to look. "They look like shorts."

"Basically same thing but fancy. You wear stockings with them and look very fashionable for the time," Desmond shrugs and considers the breeches. Then he sets them down. "Wanna go see what else we can find?"

Their eventual haul off the first ship includes some serviceable barrels, crates, chests, more clothes, rope, which is useful, some knickknacks from the captain's cabin which are all ruined with water and which Harry might be able to fix – and a whole bunch of mostly waterlogged sailcloth. Everything that got exposed to water is ruined though, including all potential papers and most everything made of cloth or wood or anything organic that wasn't in the airtight chest.

They do find some treasure though. Between Desmond's Eagle Vision and Harry's ability to summon things to him, they find some coin pouches and eventually a small chest of coins in the captain's cabin – counting it all later on land, it has a sum total of few dozen gold coins. Spanish reals, mostly, with few escudos.

"So, are we rich or not?" Harry wonders.

"Well, some of these are gold," Desmond says, stacking the coins up on a table Harry had made for them at some point. "But on other hand, there's nothing and no one to spend these on, so…"

"Hm. I used to have a vault full of gold," Harry says thoughtfully and stretches his back with a yawn. "Never did figure out how much was there. A lot more than this anyway."

"Vault… full of gold?" Desmond asks, giving him a look. And the kid wears hand-me-downs?

Harry shrugs. "Stuff my parents left me," he admits. "Never felt right using it."

"Ah," Desmond says. "Well."

"Yeah," Harry agrees. "So, what do you think happened to the ships?"

"A battle, judging by the looks of the holes on the sides," Desmond says. "They blew each other up. I figure there were more ships involved though, since no one seems to have taken refuge on the island here – the survivors got picked up by someone."

"A battle. A ship battle – with guns and all?" Harry asks, eyes a little wide.

"That's generally what the guns are for, yeah," Desmond agrees and folds his arms. "Hmm, do you think we could haul those guns up, actually?"

"You mean, could I haul them up with magic?" Harry asks and tilts his head. "Maybe, but it wouldn't be easy. Why?"

"Well, these guys were fighting over something – which might mean there's a war going on out there," Desmond shrugs. "Having guns on the island might not be a terrible idea, all things considered."

Harry frowns at that, thinking about it. "Can you even use them?" he asks dubiously.

"Can't tell you before I try it out, can I?"

* * *

 

It takes few more days to go through the rest of the wrecks. They're a mixed bunch of British and French from what Desmond can tell – which is not very helpful in trying to figure out what war they might've been fighting for. British, French and the Spaniards have been fighting over the ocean about one thing or another on so many occasions that it could be anything.

Timeline-wise though… French Revolutionary Wars might not be that far off the mark.

Their more useful loot from the ship consists of rope and cloth and serviceable storage containers, really – though on one of the ships Desmond does discover some not-water-soaked papers and even couple of books. They're all in French, language he speaks very little and reads even worse, but from them they can pin down a pretty accurate date on when the ships sank - 12th of December, 1798. That's when the last letter in the chest was written.

"So, we're at 1799 maybe?" Desmond muses and looks at Harry. "What does your watch say?"

"It's February 25th somewhere in eighteenth century, early nineteenth century," Harry admits. "I'm not that good reading the year on the thing, to be honest. I only got it about a year ago."

"But you can read the date?"

Harry shrugs. "There's a hand for Earth, which tells the month and lunar phases are kind of hard to misinterpret. Years are more vague though, date-wise."

"Huh," Desmond says and the considers the letters. "Well, now we have a date. And location, roughly speaking. Somewhere in the Caribbean. That's something, right?"

"So, what are we going to do about it?"

Desmond shrugs. "Not sure there is anything we can do about it," he admits. "Whenever we are doesn't actually change things, does it?"

Harry makes a face at that, but says nothing. Still struggling with that saviour's guilt, then, the poor kid. Desmond leaves him to it – not much he can do for him, after all.

* * *

 

They spend some more time diving anything useful out of the wrecks, but in the end, there is nothing much to be gained there. Even Harry's powers can't bring the ships back to the surface and even if it did… then what? Desmond is not leaving. Harry might want to, but if he does, he'd be going out on his own.

Desmond is happy where he is and he refuses to feel guilty about it.

"With these, I might be able to pinpoint the way to Cuba at least, if you want to try it," Desmond offers, shuffling through the papers. "We could build a raft and I could give you pointers on how to steer it. You could go, if you want to."

Harry frowns at the papers – one of which had revealed their rough coordinates and thus might enable further navigation. "You're staying here though?" the wizard asks. "Why? You don't even know what might be out there – don't you want to… I don't know, go back home?"

Desmond shrugs. Not much of a home to go back to. "I'm fine here," he says and looks to the house foundations. They've not yet pitched the pillars, but if Harry at least helped him make them… he thinks he can finish the house on his own. After that, there'd be the well, he'd need to finish digging it out, outline it with rocks to keep it from collapsing. After that, maybe trying to grow some food, plant more avocado trees, if nothing else…

Or he could try finding the local Brotherhood and joining their ranks, taking up the cause – murdering his way through history with the best of them.

Yeah.

"I'm fine here," Desmond says again.

Harry looks at the island and says nothing for a long moment. Then he lets out a long, slow sigh. "I've been thinking about the Wizarding world. Even if this is the past, it should be out there. Hogwarts, my school… even the Ministry should already be out there. I keep thinking I should go back."

Desmond looks at him and says nothing – though _Ministry_ , really? That's something a bit bigger than he'd assumed the supposed Wizarding world would be like. He'd gotten the impression it was like the Brotherhood, a secret society hidden under the surface of the normal society. Ministry, though, that's a body of government.

"But I'm not sure I was ever fully part of… anything, there," Harry murmurs. "I was just sort of… floating on the surface of it. Going back, it feels like I should, like it's my duty, but… I don't think I actually want to that badly. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah. And now you feel guilty about not wanting to go back?" Desmond guesses.

Harry sighs, his shoulders slumping.

"Yeah," Desmond nods. "That's kind of what leaving home feels like. Welcome to living your life according to your own desires – you'll eventually learn to live with the guilt of it."

"Great, thanks," Harry says and stands up. He says nothing for a moment and then takes a breath. "Alright," he says, decision made, and shakes his head. "How about we get back to finishing the house?"

"Yeah," Desmond says and stands up. "Let's do that."


	3. Chapter 3

The house is going to end up much nicer than Harry would've thought it would. Desmond directs the whole thing, from floor level up to the ceiling, doing most of the brick laying himself at first – then it's Harry laying the bricks while Desmond packs the in-betweens with mortar. All in all, the walls don't take nearly as long as they probably should, and after that, there's the roof.

Turns out, grainy glass rooftop is entirely possible.

"Probably a bit more brittle than properly baked clay, but I'll take it," Desmond says, and then sketches out some designs in the smooth sand. "This is how we want them – so that they interlink with each other, and hook into the supports. Do you think you can do it?"

"One way to find out," Harry answers and gets to it.

Working with sand is a bit different from how he's used to dealing with transfiguration. Objectively Harry's known for a while now that spells are malleable – that the spells taught to them in Hogwarts classes weren't the end all be all of spellwork. Idea is to take those spells and then change them to suit your purposes – and hopefully, eventually you’ll know how to make water goblet out of anything, not just any suitable frog or rat you happened to have nearby. Harry thinks he'd gotten it down eventually – though mostly by watching Hermione. Hermione had been making her own spells since year one.

Sand is weird though. It's not just one thing – it's a lot of things. To make anything out of it, it has to be turned into one thing. So, melting it to make glass, or whatever, that makes sense. Melted things mix together – into one thing.

It's a bloody good way to burn yourself, though. Harry's learned to do his glass melting in a stone kiln instead in hand pretty quick.

His first attempts at making roof tiles are a bit awkward – they end up too fragile and shatter easily. He still can't make clear glass either – it always ends up grainy and, just, _sandy_ in general. "I think it's because the sand is wrong," Desmond comforts him. "I figure glass is usually made of special sort of sand. Silica sand, or whatever."

Still, he manages it – spell by spell until he's not even really using a spell, just mumbling words that sound vaguely like _vitrum_ and _potiri_ and any other word he thinks might be related to glass. _Oculus_ is probably just for lenses and such, though….

"So how does it work?" Desmond asks, watching him make more and more scrappy glass. "I mean, using words for magic – language is a human invention but magic is more part of nature, right? So how does muttering words make things happen? How does the magic know what the word means?"

Harry sighs, rubbing at his forehead. "It doesn't – I do," he says. "It has something to do with belief. I think it will work, and so it will. Except I don't – I haven't figured it out yet, so…"

Desmond arches an eyebrow at that, looking at the pile of broken glass and then arching his other brow. "Huh," he says and tilts his head. "So it's basically faith."

"Basically," Harry says. "Friend explained to me once – we get sort of… conditioned to thinking spells work in school and so they eventually do. It's like a mental training thing – I don't know. It kind of went in one ear and out the other."

"So if you stopped believing, you'd stop being able to do magic?" Desmond asks.

"No," Harry answers and frowns. "I mean, I don't think so. It's not just belief – I _know_ it works this way. It's pretty well proven at this point that it does. I don't think I can un-know that, not without getting obliviated."

"Obliviated?"

"It's a spell to erase memories."

"That's a thing you can do? And it takes out the ability to do magic? Huh," Desmond says again, resting his elbows on his knees. "It's a brain thing then, making connections until they work. So this, you trying to invent this spell, you're making new connections?"

"I guess. Would be easier without you interrupting all the time."

Desmond grins and rolls to his feet. "Alright. I'll go work on the well then. Have fun not burning yourself."

"Yeah, yeah…" Harry says with a wave and watches him head off, to continue digging by the pool site. He's made the guy a proper shovel so it's going faster now – still, there's a lot of digging left. Desmond hasn't asked help with it, though, so…

As far as muggles go, Desmond definitely isn't bad. Not that Harry has ever known that many of them who knew or learned about magic. Desmond is definitely taking it better than Dursleys ever did, that's for sure. He neither fears nor hates magic – nor is he expecting Harry to do everything or solve all their problems. He's actually a bit miffed if he does, which is kind of funny in a weird way.

One would think he'd be jealous, or want to have magic of his own. If their roles were reversed, Harry would. Magic is _so handy_ – especially so here, where they have nothing and are building everything out of nothing. But Desmond hasn't even asked.

That probably means something.

Shaking his head, Harry turns back to the task at hand, taking another pile of sand and measuring it into the crucible before going about melting it into a mouldable lump. According to Desmond, they'd need at least couple hundred tiles for the roof if they wanted to make it properly watertight. Long way to go until then.

* * *

 

As places to live, there could be worse than this island. Privet Drive comes to mind. Gaunt's house. The orphanage where Tom Riddle had grown up. A lot of other places Harry had seen, which had ended up being gloomy and terrible – in comparison the warm sand and sunlight and ocean breeze, it's the definite step up. It is the sort of place he'd always kind of wished he could go, just for a while, to forget everything and just… be.

But he keeps thinking back to Hogwarts, the battle, what might've come after it' He'd tried to set it up so that after his death someone could finish the job for him, but… there's no way to know if they had. Neville might've killed Nagini, but had anyone managed to kill Voldemort? He doesn't know. He might never know, seeing as they're _here_ , two hundred years in the past. He's always going to be wondering, probably.

Not the sort of future he'd imagined for himself – never knowing how things turned out in the end.

Working on the house is a good distraction from that. Harry eventually figures out the spell for the roof tiles, even manages to make them the way Desmond wants them to look, and while Desmond starts covering the walls in nice white sand-and-concrete mix to make it all smooth and nice, Harry makes the tiles by the dozen, until the sandy beach is starting to be covered in gleaming glass.

"How about window panes?" Desmond asks, considering the window holes he left on the walls.

"After the still, that's easy," Harry agrees. "But they're still going to be grainy and blurry – I can't make the glass any clearer than that."

"That's fine – we just want them to let the light in and keep the rain out."

So they end up having smoothly plastered walls and grainy glass windows and then Desmond starts working out the support for the roof tiles. They already had the ceiling beams and whatnot in place, of course – Desmond had been very thorough about the framework. But the roof tiles have to rest on something.

"I'd like it to be wood," Desmond admits. "All throughout. We can put them hanging on some poles set across the rooftop and whatnot, but that's not going to be very secure. Wooden planks would do better, then the tiles on top of those."

Harry considers the island. They've pretty much stripped it of any loose wood so far - for the raft and then for the framework of the house. Next up would be actually cutting down the trees, and Desmond doesn't seem to like the idea any better than he does. "Well, we have some crates and barrels I could probably use," Harry says thoughtfully. "If I stretch the wood out a bit, it might be enough…"

Desmond nods slowly, looking at the pile of barrels and crates. "I was kind of hoping to save those for actual furniture," he admits and then looks to Harry. "Those shipwrecks – if we managed to strip the wood from those, any chance you could do anything with them?"

Harry purses his lips, thinking about it. "Maybe," he admits then. "It's worth a try."

So they try it – taking their raft out to the nearest one, where they spend an afternoon swimming and breaking the poor shipwreck apart. There is no way to get it actually off the ocean floor entirely – it's in two pieces and half sunken in the bottom, covered in sand and already growing seaweed and coral here and there. But wherever the wood looks good enough to use, they get it off and to the surface. It's not easy though – the waterlogged wood is heavy and unwieldy, and a lot of it's too badly rotten to even make it to the surface.

The swimming is pretty awesome though. Harry's never been the best or most enthusiastic swimmer – he's never been to a beach properly and swimming in the Black Lake was tempting hypothermia even on hottest of days. The one time he had to had been bad enough to almost swear off swimming in entirely. But here…

It's pretty lovely, here. The water is lovely and the ocean is beautiful under the waves – bright and colourful. Even here, where the water is steadily growing muddy and blurry with the muck and rotten bits of wood they're kicking up.

Then Desmond stops him from diving underneath again after they get their latest patch of wood onto the raft. "I think I saw a shark," he says tightly while grabbing Harry by the upper arm to try and urge him onto the raft.

"No way," Harry answers flatly.

"It's the right climate for them," Desmond says. "Get on, we're going to shore."

And then Harry sees it too – a shape in the water, brushing close enough to the surface to kick up some bubbles – a tail fin breaching the surface and vanishing underneath. "Desmond, get on," Harry says, quickly reaching for his wand.

Desmond doesn't, casting a look at the raft – it's so heavy with the waterlogged wood they loaded up that Harry has water lapping at his feet as he stands on it. Desmond turns his eyes to the shark instead and flexes his fingers before reaching up from the water to grab the boom and unfurl the makeshift sail. Harry grabs at the rudder quickly as Desmond cuts the anchor.

Harry isn't as good at the whole business of sailing as Desmond, especially with a raft like theirs – usually it's the muggle who does the steering. Desmond is still in the water, trying to give the raft a push to aim it towards the island, but the island is pretty far away – and the shark is pretty close.

"Let's just drop the wood and get out of here, we can get it later," Harry says, clutching his wand in one hand and trying to aim the raft at the island with the other.

"The shark might be here later too," Desmond answers, keeping his eyes on the water, holding onto the raft with one hand, pushing it. "Just keep going, it's alright. We're fine."

"We're _not_ fine – just get out of the water. I have a spell, I know a _bunch_ of attack spells, I can try and –"

There's a swell in the water – something below coming up, fast – and then Desmond launches himself from the raft, pushing off it and swinging with his arm. For a moment Harry thinks madly that he's trying to punch the bloody shark – but no, not punch. Over the bubbling of the water and trashing of the shark's fins, he doesn't hear it – but he can see the glint of the blade.

Then there is blood, quickly painting the water red.

"Desmond!" Harry shouts, standing up and aiming his wand at the water – but there's too much trashing happening, the shark is _flailing_ and there are glimpses of Desmond's arms and legs, appearing and disappearing in the roiling water – more blood, more splashing, the water is going dark now and then –

The shark stops, twitching couple of times and then stopping – it's still body floating to the surface, bobbling in the waves slowly

Desmond comes up to the surface moment later – his arm covered in blood.

"Missed the heart on the first strike," he says by the way of greeting, and shakes the blood off his arm.

"You bloody lunatic!" Harry snaps. "What the bloody hell was that?! Are you alright? Did it bite you – show me your arm -"

"It didn't get me," Desmond answers and does a couple of breast strokes to get closer to the raft. "It's the shark's blood, not mine. I got the heart eventually."

"You madman," Harry answers, even while checking the bastard's arm quickly. It does look alright – aside from the blood clinging to the straps of his wrist blade. "You just – bloody hell. Is this something you just do – wrestle bloody sharks?"

"Well, not all the time. Occasionally. One of my ancestors was pretty good hunter aside from being an Assassin – it kind of rubbed off, I guess," Desmond grins and then looks at the shark's body - and the blood seeping off it. "We better get back to the island now, though. Who knows what other predators that is going to attract. Though we could try and get it to shore and eat it ourselves..."

" _No_ , are you _mental_? I'm not eating that. Bloody _hell_ ," Harry says again, shaking his head and looking at him. Okay, that's… Desmond is so calm all the time he'd kind of forgotten. Assassin. "Let's just go back. Will you get onto the raft now, though, please?"

"It can't support me and the wood," Desmond shrugs. "And we need the wood for the house."

"The house isn't more important than – argh," Harry lets out an impatient sound and then casts a feather-light charm onto the pile of wood. Immediately, the raft bobs up from the water, as if it's carrying nothing more than Harry's weight. "There! Now get on, you lunatic, before you get your leg bitten off or something."

Desmond arches a brow and then hauls himself up from the water. "I'm fine, Harry," he says, looking at him strangely.

"Psh," Harry answers irritably and takes the rudder.

* * *

 

It's a bit childish maybe, but Harry doesn't talk to Desmond for a bit. He's not even sure why – Desmond was fine, apparently he knows just what to do when he's attacked like that, he hadn't even gotten scratched. The guy carries his blade everywhere he goes for a reason, too, and it isn't a fashion choice. And he's older than Harry too, been around for awhile; he knows how to take care of himself.

Still, somehow it just… ugh.

For a split of a second there Harry thought he might die or at least be severely injured – and then what? Then _what_? What would they do if one of them got injured? What would he do if Desmond just… died on him? Harry keeps imagining digging a grave for Desmond on the island and it makes his blood run cold. And he can't think past it, either – of what he'd do after… it's just not happening, he just can't.

He just wants to go home. Home, where hopefully everyone he knew was fine and alive and not about to get themselves killed by wrestling sharks. Bloody hell.

Desmond watches him from the side for awhile, growing more and more awkward as he sorts through the wood and lays it out to dry in the setting sun. Eventually, it's Desmond who breaks the silence, sidling up to him with bit of freshly cooked crab. "Hey," he says. "I got food."

Harry pokes at the sand and scowls.

Desmond sighs and sits beside him. "Listen, man, I'm sorry – I didn't mean to scare you."

"Tch," Harry answers.

"I'm kind of used to jumping into things, so I didn't even think about it," Desmond admits. "The thing was right there and I was pretty sure I could take it. And being around assassins made me forget it's not… common for people to do that."

Harry casts him a sideways look. "I could've killed it with magic," he says. "There's cutting hexes and bolts and – and if those didn't work I could've _bombed_ it. And no one would've needed to wrestle the damn thing in the bloody water and risk getting hurt."

Desmond shrugs. "Hindsight is always twenty-twenty," he says and hands leaf with the cooked crab meat on it. "Can't change what happened now, though. Sorry."

Harry tsks again, but accepts the leaf. He pokes at the crab legs for a bit and then sighs and picks one of them up in his fingers, biting into it. Desmond had cooked them in brine, it tastes like – with fish oil. It's actually not bad.

"Pretty sure you could take it," Harry then says. "That's comforting."

"Yeah," Desmond says and leans back, lying down on the sand. "Sorry."

Harry sighs and shakes his head, chewing on the crab and staring at the horizon. The sun is setting, making a bridge of gold and orange on the waves. It's pretty. Sunsets are pretty much always pretty, here.

Desmond might be saying he's sorry, but he's not saying he's not going to do it again or that he wouldn't have done it in other circumstances. It kind of makes Harry think that even if Desmond had been on the raft, he probably would've jumped at the shark anyway. There's something about him that's just…

"Tell me about Assassins," Harry says. "You're not just hired killers, are you? It's something else."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees with a hum. "It's hard to explain. Not all Assassin's are like me, but a lot are – it's… kind of in our nature, even when we reject it. We have these abilities, this natural… inclination for it."

"To killing things," Harry says quietly.

Desmond sighs. "Yeah – and being very good at it," he says without hint of boasting or superiority – just a fact, a bitter one at that. "I think it’s just accumulated within us over many generations and now it's just… in our blood. Have enough Assassins in your family tree and you don't even need that much training. Genetic memory bleeding through and all that."

Harry looks at him, picking at the bits of crab. "Is that why you want to stay here?" he asks, trying to form the weird feeling he has into some sort of concrete words. "Because around people you might…"

"I'm not actually insane, Harry," Desmond says and rolls his eyes. "Or out of control or anything. I can just choose not to be a murdering asshole, it's not even hard – just don't kill people. But still, it comes easier than I'd like. And I'd prefer to not have cause to resort to it."

Harry frowns a bit at that, not really getting it.

"You know how it's like… when you learn something – and suddenly you keep seeing it everywhere?" Desmond asks. "Assassins see causes to fight. They find people who need help behind every corner, they see missions, and quests, they just… they're everywhere if you just look the right way. And everywhere there are people who would be better off dead. We see enemies, everywhere." He sighs. "I leave this place and I'm pretty much guaranteed to find a righteous cause to fight and kill for. But here, there's no reason to fight here," he says and closes his eyes. "I like that."

Harry says nothing for a long while, picking at the crab while Desmond falls silent, not saying anything either. What is there to say anyway?

* * *

 

They finish the house. Desmond fits in the roof planks and then they cover them in the mostly-glass tiles. The end result is… it's nice. It's actually really nice, if Harry says so himself. Desmond makes them window sills and everything while Harry attaches the roof tiles with few spells to make them a bit more secure – and then throws in some protective spells to make sure they don't break in the first gust of wind. Desmond then even makes them a porch and everything. It's a real house – aside from not having running water or separate rooms.

They now have space _indoors_ though – and a sort of a kitchen with stove and oven and stuff. The stove is a bit of a work in progress for now, though – Desmond isn't that sure how to make it just right, so they're still making adjustments to it. But for now the stove at least functions – they even got metal plates for it from the shipwrecks, Harry turning some rusted cannon balls into disks to be embedded in the stone of the stove. It's rough, but it works.

Inside, they make spaces for themselves, separating them from each other with a screen divider made of wood and palm fronds woven together – it's not half bad. With cots made of wood and sail cloth and eventually pillows and everything… it's like they have rooms. They have their rooms, beds, eventually, they even make a table and chairs too… even shelves for holding stuff. It's like a real house. It _is_ a real house. They even have a _door_ which is a weird sort of luxury on an island shared by just two people.

"Home sweet home," Desmond pronounces.

"Yeah," Harry agrees. "Huh."

He's not sure what he was expecting. Maybe for things to become clearer or to feel more settled, or something. It doesn't feel that different, though. It's pretty wicked to be _done_ though, to be finished – it is an accomplishment, and he is a bit proud of himself…

He doesn't feel any more settled though.

"Now what?" Harry asks.

"I don't know about you, but I want to finish the well," Desmond says. "After that, I'm going to see if we can plant more of those avocado trees at least, maybe do same with the pineapple. We need more food than just seafood."

"Yeah," Harry says and folds his arms. He makes a face. "I guess I could start working on a spot to plant stuff in then." With Dursleys, he certainly has experience with it.

Desmond gives him a sideways look. "You don't have to if you don't want to," he says.

Harry shakes his head. "I want to," he says and makes a face. "I want to do _something_."

"You can do anything you want – but don't make it a chore for yourself," Desmond says and turns to get the shovel. "This is your home too – it shouldn't feel forced."

Harry frowns at that a little, not sure how to take it, and then watches Desmond head to the well site. He's gotten pretty deep now and the bottom of the hole is constantly filling with water which, from what Harry can see, is only making the digging harder. Still, Desmond doesn't seem annoyed by the task – just determined. Difference between something you want to do – and a chore.

Harry looks away, at the island around them, the ocean past its irregular beaches, and wonders. What does he want to do?

* * *

 

Harry is still trying to figure out something he'd really want to do – to build or make or just… kill some time with – when something disturbs the peace of the island. Something other than the shark anyway.

In the distance, there are cracks and echoing _booms_ and when Harry peers into the horizon, he thinks he sees shapes on the water. It's still very distant, the sounds very faint and the shapes too far away to make out… but it's unmistakable even to him, and he's never seen or heard anything like it before.

A ship battle.

"Looks like three ships," Desmond murmurs, peering at the horizon beside him while Harry tries to get one of the spyglasses they'd salvaged to work. "A frigate and a brig – can't tell what the third one is. Sloop maybe?"

"How do you see that far?" Harry demands while fitting the glass over his eye – there, he sees them. Ships, they're really ships – all wooden and old-fashioned like the ship Durmstrang students used to arrive at Hogwarts, with whole swathes of sail.

"Eagle Vision," Desmond answers, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hands. "I can't make out the flags – can you?"

Harry squints. "I think one of them is a tricolour? Not sure about the other two."

"French, then," Desmond answers and holds out his hand. "Can I see that?"

"I think the lens is off alignment, but here."

Desmond is quiet for a moment, peering at the horizon through the glass while Harry tries to see. With naked eye only aided by the pair of eyeglasses, he can only see some vague white-ish shapes in the distance. Eagle Vision, huh?

"A French frigate and two British ships, the brig and a sloop," Desmond pronounces. "Hmm."

"You know a lot about ships?"

"I have a passing familiarity," Desmond admits, frowning a little. "The French seem to be outmatched so far, huh…"

Harry shifts his footing on the sand. "What do we do?" he asks, not actually sure if there is anything they _can_ do.

"Nothing," Desmond says with a shrug. "Sit back and enjoy the show. Pick a side to root for maybe. Hope to god they don't decide that we’re interesting."

"Why – are they likely to do something?" Harry asks, folding his arms, uneasy. It being a ship battle, it's probably part of some war or another, and as such it's really not their fight, but… it feels wrong to just sit there and do nothing. "Will they try to capture us or something?"

"I have no idea and I don't want to find –" Desmond stops and leans sharply away from the spyglass. Then he looks away, as if looking at whatever he's seeing with the naked eye will make it make more sense. "What the hell is _that_?"

Harry takes the glass from him and peers through it again. He blinks and then takes another look, just to be sure. What he sees doesn't change – there is something flying above the French ship now, circling around its masts a couple of times before suddenly making a sharp turn towards the other ships. Something flashes in the air and there is a cloud of smoke and the flying thing veers back, letting out a very distinctive cry.

"That's a dragon," Harry says flatly, watching how the dragon makes another swoop and drops something onto the British ships. There are cracks and flashes following it – explosions rocking the water around the ship, making the sails billow this way and that. It takes a moment for that to make sense in Harry's head, but apparently, the dragon just dropped _bombs_ onto one of the ships. What the bloody…?

"… a dragon?" Desmond asks flatly. "That's a dragon?"

"Yeah," Harry says, just as incredulous. "A dragon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop there it is


	4. Chapter 4

A dragon. Apparently.

Of all the things that Desmond might've expected, and honestly, he tried not to expect anything because that extra stress wasn't something he particularly enjoyed… yeah, dragons weren't even on the list of things to look out for. They weren't even in the realm of _maybe a possibility somewhere in the universe._  God, sure. Wizards, he could buy that, Pieces of Eden could maybe do that somehow. Time travel, yeah, definitely, there might've even been incidents of it happening before. But dragons?

"A dragon," he says again and looks at Harry. "You don't seem to be too weirded out by the dragon."

"I am very weirded out by the dragon," Harry says and flails a hand at the ships in the distance. "Look at it – it's dropping _bombs_!"

Desmond tilts his head a little and then looks to the ships again. Even with Eagle Vision they are a little too far away to be seen clearly – but he can see the shape above them, flying in circles. The British ships are shooting something at it – there are little _puffs_ of smoke followed by the sound of echoing gunfire, sound racing to catch up with the image. It's like they're firing smoke shots at the dragon. And the dragon is doing bombing runs.

Folding his arms, Desmond lets that concept settle in. A flying thing this early in the timeline, he can buy that, Ezio was flying on the awkward glider back in the 15th century. They even managed to put guns on the thing eventually, before Ezio destroyed it. That's generally what flying war machines – or… flying war mounts? – are used for. It's a very clear tactical advantage, getting above the enemy and dropping various forms of fire on them. Anyone can figure that out.

But the fact that the ships are shooting smoke _at_ the dragon… that's something else. It's probably not just smoke, judging by the way it makes the dragon veer away from it. Noxious smoke maybe, early tear gas…

They do not only have a dragon with clearly defined military use and purpose – with bombs probably specifically designed for the task, it looks like – but they have a weapon of deterrent especially designed for combating dragons. Aerial combat, and anti-air artillery.

"Bloody hell, how did they get it to do what they want?" Harry mutters, squinting through the spyglass. "Also I think there's someone on that thing's back. It has a rider. How did they manage that?"

"Huh," Desmond answers and glances at him, blinking the Eagle Vision out of his eyes. "So they shouldn't have been able to do that?"

"It's a dragon! You can't train a dragon," Harry says and makes a face. "Not where I come from, anyway. I mean, I have ridden a dragon once – but it was blind and probably deaf and didn't actually know we were on its back, and we had _no_ control about where it was going."

"You've… ridden a dragon."

"Yeah – it was the fastest way to break out of a bank."

Desmond looks at him and then files that away for later, in case the kid feels like sharing. "So where you come from… there are dragons," he says slowly. "And I'm assuming they don't do this," he motions to the distant ships.

Just then a cloud of smoke envelopes the whole scene – one of the ships had gotten a shot at a broadside and they'd taken it. The boom and crack of gunfire follows the smoke soon after, the sound echoing over the waves – and the dragon aloft lets out a screech. Apparently it was the French ship that felt the brunt of the gunnery there.

"No, they don't do this," Harry mutters, frowning and fitting the glass over the lens of his glasses again. "It takes dozen dragon handlers just to keep them from breaking loose and laying waste to muggle settlements. They're not – you can't train them to do what you want."

Desmond doesn't answer immediately. Where he comes from there aren't any dragons at all – they would be somewhere in history, if there were, and he would've found out about them somehow. Between the First Civilisation and all the first hand experience with history he has… he would've seen _something_. But there'd been nothing and there definitely hadn't been any colonial ship battles with dragons either.

There hadn't been any magic either – just technology, passing for one.

Slowly, the smoke clears in the distance enough to see one of the masts of the French frigate going down, coming down like a great white tree. Aside from that, it's too far away to see the damage, but it seems bad – the dragon has pulled back, to circle around the French frigate anxiously, and the British are holding their fire now, the silence loud and awkward after the gunnery.

There's almost ten minutes of silence between the ships while the smoke clears and the broken mast hangs off the Frigate's side, supported by ropes and sails. Desmond narrows his eyes – they're not even trying to cut it loose, even though it's tilting the ship slightly to the side. Thinking they can still save it, maybe.

"What are they waiting for?" Harry asks finally.

"For the French to give up," Desmond answers. "Or to come up with a new strategy. The British have them outmanoeuvred with two lighter ships. The French though have the dragon which might win them the day, and they have a bigger ship with more guns… though it might be dead on the water. All in all, they're probably plotting."

"If the British have them outmanoeuvred, why not just hit them again?" Harry asks. "Don't they have a clear shot?"

"Yeah. But they want to take the ship and its crew – not sink them," Desmond says with a shrug. "That is a very nice ship, you know. Frigates aren't cheap – and soldiers get prize money for capturing enemy ships and soldiers."

Harry frowns a little and then peers through the spyglass again. Then he looks at Desmond again. "The dragon is hauling something up, something big," he says and hands the glass over.

Desmond looks. The dragon has no rider on its back now – they stripped it of all of its extra weight to let it carry the thing, it seems. And the thing, it's a barrel – _firebarrel_ says some instinct he has buried in his memory, not quite his own. The dragon is wildly beating its wings, hauling the barrel up, up and out of the reach of the guns they're aiming at it – the British are hurriedly trying to veer off as the dragon turns towards them, to drop the barrel right on their deck.

"They're trying to set the British brig on fire," Desmond says darkly. "That's a barrel of gunpowder."

"Bloody hell," Harry mutters, as the barrel falls and the dragon beats away.

The barrel hits the deck of the British brig pretty accurately, and there must be some excellent marksmen on the French frigate and at the end of the swivel guns – there's a cluster of smaller shots, and then an explosion rocks British ships, light flashing on it's deck and whole lot of smoke. Through the smoke it's hard to see – but if the sails hadn't caught on fire, Desmond would be very surprised.

"We have to _do_ something," Harry says insistently, reaching for the glass again. "We have to stop them! They're going to _kill_ each other."

"Well," Desmond says rather uncomfortably. That's what people do in wars. "We're just two people. People with some unusual abilities maybe, but still two people. On those ships there are hundreds of men with firearms and swords and who knows what else. Could your magic take out them all without anyone getting a shot at?"

Even the best Assassins of history wouldn't try and take those numbers.

Harry grimaces. "I could maybe freeze the ships on water – there's a spell that makes things unable to move for a while…"

Desmond looks at him, arching his brows, but Harry looks a bit dubious himself.

"… but I'd have to get there first and I don't think the spell is wide enough to cover all the ships," Harry admits and makes a face. "Maybe one of them."

"You take any one of those ships out will mean the other side will have advantage – and they will make use of it," Desmond warns him. "Take out the French ship and British will win – take out either of the British ships…"

"Damn it," Harry mutters and ruffles his hand through his already messy hair, making it stand up even more. "Then what? There has to be something we can do! We can't just let them kill each other on our watch, can we?"

Desmond folds his arms. He'd like to say that he didn't care – it wasn't his fight and wars were fought all the time, everywhere. People always got killed, and it wasn't his responsibility to try and stop people from doing that. It's not their job to end fighting or enforce peace, right? People will fight because they want to fight, who are they to tell them to stop?

Even Assassins didn't try and _stop_ wars when they already got started, didn't try to enforce peace between two warring parties. That's just… too much effort. It takes too much resources. It's easier to prevent a war – or to take a side in it and try and end it as fast as you can – rather than try and enforce peace as a third party. Even Templars didn't try that – though then again, they _started_ more wars than Desmond probably even knows about.

Desmond grimaces tightly as the gunnery continues over the water – the French have managed some manoeuvrability, and are chasing the British back with a crack of their great guns.

It's not their job to stop wars – but damn it…

"I'm going there, somehow," Harry says determinedly and takes out his wand. "I'm doing _something_. I can't just stand here and watch."

Damn hero complexes. "To stop that you will need to have a bigger gun than any of them," Desmond says warningly. "They both have too much to gain from winning and too much to lose – and they both think they have some upper hand, so they won't stop now. To get them to stop you will have to force them, both of them. Can you do that?"

Harry grimaces but hesitates. "Well, I don't see you trying to come up with anything!" he accuses and motions to the ships, to the clouds of smoke surrounding them as they take shots at each other.

Desmond draws a breath and then lets it out in a frustrated breath. "I'm _sorry_ , Harry, I just can't see how we can make any difference here," he admits. "Not unless you can, I don't even know, conjure us up a ship bigger than any of theirs, full with crew and at least eighty guns to match with all their firepower. And maybe a dragon to boot, to match theirs."

Harry opens his mouth and then frowns, looking at him. Then he takes the spyglass and looks at the warring ships again – and at the dragon still hovering above them. "You know, that dragon," he says.

"Hm?"

"It's a lot smaller than the dragons I know," Harry says. "I mean, that's about the size of a big horse – that's… kind of small, isn't it?"

Desmond blinks and looks at him with an arched brow and then at the ships. A flying thing the size of a horse seems plenty big to him. "How big are the dragons you know then?" he asks warily.

"The dragon we escaped the bank with was I think the biggest there is, it was uh…" Harry peers at the ships, concentrating. "It was about the length of that bigger British ship, I think."

Desmond stares at him for long moment before looking at the ship. It's, what…. 60, 80 feet long from bow to stern? "That's… bigger," he says slowly and tilts his head. "That might be big enough, even." Then he looks at Harry, who looks back with mixture of suspicion and determination. "So… think you can turn me into a dragon?"

"Think you can keep your mind intact if I do?" Harry asks back.

One way to find out.

* * *

 

Desmond had liked being turned into an eagle. In fact, he'd liked it a little too much, which is why he hadn't asked Harry to do it again, despite how fantastic it had been. That sense of freedom, of world becoming so gloriously open and three dimensional all of a sudden, with him able to go any which way he wanted to, that was… that was something. But the feel of his own humanity – and with it all his regrets, his doubts, fears, worries, all of it – fading away, it had been…

Desmond had caught himself before getting lost in it, but for a moment there he'd though, "I could just stay like this and not think about anything ever again…" and it would've been _great._

Also, wings. You cannot understate how great it was, having _wings._  Assassins tried to fly all the time, Ezio even got the chance to do it literally, but flying with an aid of devices as opposed to under your own power, it's a very different feeling of freedom. True freedom, unchained by limitations of humanity.

And that was just being an eagle. That sense of temptation has nothing, absolutely _nothing_ on the feeling of becoming a dragon. There isn't anything that compared. There are no words for how it feels. Except maybe one.

"How – how do you feel?" Harry asks, looking up at him, nervous and wand at the ready.

Desmond hums. "Like a dragon," he answers.

He doesn't know enough about dragons to be worried about the look of alarm Harry gives him, nor is he interested enough. He's more curious about his own body, long and sinuous, scaleless with smooth, mostly white hide. He's streaked with red, with the hint of black here and there. Assassin colours. Fitting.

"Blimey," Harry murmurs, faint, as Desmond noses at his wings and decides that yeah, he can live with this. He can so totally live with this. "So, the ships?" Harry asks. "Can you do anything about the ships?"

Desmond lifts his head and looks. So far the ships don't seem to have noticed the dragon suddenly dwarfing the little island they're on. "Yeah," he says thoughtful. "I think I can." They look so small now.

"Right," Harry says, fiddling with his wand for a moment. Then he puts the wand away and steps up. "Give me a hand – I'm going to get on your back."

Desmond looks down. Harry is small now too. He wasn't exactly big when Desmond was a human, but he's just tiny now. Minuscule. He's also not waiting for Desmond to actually give him a hand and is already clambering up his arm. His foreleg?

"Careful," Desmond says and as gently as he can nudges Harry up the rest of the way with the back of his now enormous hand, making the wizard let out a whoop of surprise as he's boosted up. "You gotta hold onto something."

"You're not the first dragon I've ridden on," Harry grunts as he tries to get his legs around the back of Desmond's legs – and fails, Desmond neck is too wide now. "Hang on a bit," the kid says and gets out his wand. Moment later there's a shiver running down Desmond spine before something wraps around his neck.

"Did you just put a collar on me?" Desmond asks curiously. "Bit heavy for the first date, don't you think?"

"What? No!" Harry says, mortified. "It's just a rope for me to hang on to!"

"I expect flowers after this," Desmond says thoughtfully. "And you can cook for a change. Maybe even make some desert."

"Can we just go?" Harry demands, sounding embarrassed. "They're still fighting out there in case you missed it?"

Desmond hums. "Hold on," he says and launches into air. It happens not without effort, but the effort is intuitive – his whole body moves into it, coiling up for a jump and then spreading out, wings and tail stretching out to catch most air before beating powerfully to gain little bit of altitude. In a breath, they're past the sandy beach and over glimmering waves and yeah. Nothing will ever beat this.

"Desmond, roar," Harry says urgently.

Desmond turns his head and isn't that a trick, being able to do full 180 and look over your own back. "What?"

"Roar. Like a dragon," Harry says. His hair is even more of a mess than usual and his eyes are wide and wild. He looks exhilarated and terrified at the same time. "Let them know we're here. Just roar!"

So Desmond roars. It's not very Assassin like, announcing yourself like this before battle, but hell. It's still awesome, the noise he can make now. It's enormous.

It definitely gets them noticed. As Desmond angles his body towards the ships, the crack of cannons dies down and people on the decks – who aren't trying to put our fires and whatnot – stop to stare. Then there's pointing and shouting and then people are aiming guns at them.

Desmond considers the ships, circling around them and counting heads. The British brig is on fire and people are in part abandoning it and in part trying to save it – there are some crazy people on the burning sails, trying to set them loose before the rest would catch on fire. The French have the upper hand now, as far as the ships go anyway – if the British brig isn't lost already, it would be soon. It's out of the fight anyway, leaving just the sloop against the frigate and the dragon – speaking of which…

It's tiny and coming at them. Barely big enough to carry one man on its back, the little dragon is beating its wings wildly against the air, trying to catch up with Desmond. On its back there's a man sitting on a saddle, shouting something in French. The man is wearing an uniform.

"Can you speak French?" Desmond asks Harry.

"Not even a bit," Harry admits nervously.

Damn. Ezio's terrible French would have to do then. "Right. What do I say to him?"

"Um. Stop fighting?" Harry says. "Just tell them to stop fighting."

"Or else?"

"Well. Yeah."

Desmond snorts and turns to the little dragon and it's shouting rider. "Stand down," he says in what's probably atrocious French. "You and your ship. Stand down."

"You are with the British!" The rider shouts over the rush of air and the bearing of dragon wings.

"No – they will stand down too. Everyone will stand down," Desmond growls. "Tell them."

The rider hesitates just for a moment and then shifts his whole body on the dragon's back like someone riding a motorcycle, using his weight to steer. The dragon turns and then dives back towards the French ship.

Time to go give the British the same, Desmond muses. "Hold on," he says over his shoulder and then dives. Harry lets out a shout on his back as they drop forwards the burning British brig, but he holds on.

There's a lot of shouting and someone actually fires a gun at then – it misses by a mile or so. Harry shouts something while Desmond snatches up an empty jolly boat from the waves, skims the surface enough to fill it with water before beating up and over the burning brig to dump it all on the burning deck. The confusion and chaos is made even worse by it, as Desmond dives low and skims the water again for another boatful of water.

Harry does something to the second pass, Desmond can see the wand waving. There's  lot more water in boat this time, enough to douse the sails completely and flood the deck badly enough to send some men on it into the water. It puts out the fire thought, which is the main thing.

"We did it!" Harry whoops as the flames sputter out and the black smoke turns into white steam.

"Hell yeah," Desmond says and then turns fits head down. "Stand down!" He shouts. "Or I'll set you in fire again!"

While the soldiers and sailors in the deck shout something in confusion and dear, Desmond turns to the last ship, the sloop. They're a bit more fighty than the brig and as Desmond turns towards them, they fire something at him from a small, long barrelled cabin.

"Protego!" Harry shouts and there's a flash of light and whatever the ammunition is, it hits an invisible barrier between Desmond and the ship. A dome of sparks and smoke and burning powder forms infringe of him and there's a weird smell.

"Is that – pepper?" Harry asks, confused.

"Their anti-dragon artillery is pepper spray. Nice," Desmond snorts and then draws a deep breath.

The gust of flames that spews out is lot bigger and lot hotter than he expected it to be – hell of a lot more impressive too. It consumes the fragments of the pepper shot and burns them away, the force of the breath pushing away what didn't get burned to ash. It's probably one hell of a show, seen from below.

When the flames die down and the smoke fades, the sloop meekly hauls up a white flag of surrender.

* * *

 

Three ships, one dragon, several hundred of men, all waiting tensely for what comes next. Well, not all of them, the British are busy doing repairs on their brig, but the fact still stands

"So," Desmond says and looks down at Harry. "Now what?"

"Um," Harry says.

They're standing on the shore of their island, watching the ships who are watching them. The tension is palatable.

"What – what do you think we should we do?" Harry asks.

"You're the one who wanted to stop them fighting. I'm just the big stick," Desmond shrugs his wings. "Now they're waiting to see what you do. Burn them, let them go, rob them. What do you want to do with them is the question."

Harry hesitates, obviously not prepared for the responsibility of dealing with the aftermath. Desmond isn't either, really. Assassins rarely deal with the consequences of anything they take part in – they just do their thing and skedaddle. Nice and clean and guilt free because that way if things went worse it wouldn't be their fault, right, they just went in, did what they had to do, and got out and what do you mean there's a power vacuum now?

Desmond snorts and sits back on his haunches. Not that he has any room to judge anyone in skedaddling, really.

"Er," Harry says. "I guess we should start by talking to them."

"Hmm," Desmond agrees and peers at the ships. "Looks like they're ahead you there."

Both sides are sending people over – both on jolly boats, the French dragon is staying put on the ship, it looks like. The boats are packed full of men and both are coming over under white banners. Good.

Desmond looks at Harry. "You have about five minutes to figure out what to say," he says. "Better make it good, because I bet they all have guns. And I don't think they are happy about a random dragon butting in on their fun."

"Bloody hell," Harry mutters and runs a shaky hand over his hair. "Do you think we can just tell them to go away? In opposite directions so that they won't end up fighting anymore?"

"Harry, there's a good chance there's a war going on. They aren't exactly kids or wild animals fighting over for no reason – they're warships. Even if they don't fight each other here, they will end up fighting someone someday, probably," Desmond says. "You wanna try keeping peace on this playground, you need to become a superpower. Like, a nation with bigger armies than anyone else and willingness to butt into everyone's business sort of superpower."

Harry gives him a glare. "I'm not a kid – I get it, alright? I just – I can't _not_ do anything," he grumbles. "Not when they're right there, killing each other right in front of me."

Desmond looks at him and then leans his head down to nudge at his shoulder. "I get it too. I just don't want you fooling yourself here. War is war. Not sure there's much we can do about that."

Harry sighs and rests a hand on his snout for a moment. "We'll tell them to leave, to go in the opposite directions and not come back."

"Not thinking of hitching a ride to Britain?" Desmond asks. "We have some coin, maybe enough to make it."

Harry hesitates, giving him a look. "You're not going anywhere through, are you? You're going to stay here."

Desmond blows a breath against his hand. That's the plan. They've made a house and everything. But he knows better than to really trust plans these days – or to hold any hope of getting what he wants. "Guess we have to talk to them first and then see," he says and lies down on his belly, wings tucked in.

They wait in a tense silence for a bit as the jolly boats get closer, obviously trying to outpace each other and make it to the shore first.

"So, tell me honestly," Desmond says and throws his head back a bit. "How do I look?"

He's got Assassin colours going on, which is nice, and his tail and sides are streaked in ways that reminds him of Ezio's robes and Altaïr's belt, which is also nice. No idea what his head looks like though.

Harry considers him. "Kind of cool actually. Never seen a dragon with a hood but it suits you."

Desmond blinks. "A hood?"

"Yeah – not like a hood hood – like hooded snake, you know," Harry says and makes motions on the sides of his head. "You got like skin that makes a hood. It's wicked looking – oh, you just flared it up a bunch. It's bigger now."

Desmond turns his head but there's no way to actually see it, seeing that is attached to his head. He's a hooded dragon in assassin colours. "Huh. Cool."

"Yeah," Harry agrees.

And then the sailors make it to the shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tadaah dragon Desmond


	5. Chapter 5

There is something about standing next to a friendly dragon that isn't and is very confidence boosting. Desmond doesn't act like any dragon Harry had ever had the displeasure of meeting, but at the same time he doesn't act like human turned into a dragon either. The muggle took to being a big scaly monster disturbingly well really, and it's more than a bit unnerving. But at the same time – big friendly dragon.

Charlie Wesley would be weeping for this chance, huh. Never mind the flying. The awesome terrifying flying.

The whole thing would be so much more wicked without the historical muggles coming to the island, really.

And then Desmond has to make it worse by blowing out a gust of smoke and saying conversationally, "I'm not sure we're in our own world," like he's talking about the weather. "I'm not sure we even come from the same world."

And before Harry can sputter out an answer, the muggles are upon them. About half dozen in each little boat, they're all wearing uniforms that look like they come straight from a museum or a history book or something. Blues and reds on the British side and blacks and blues on the French, they're all men and all, Harry thinks glumly, are armed. Soldiers of one sort or another, all of them. They also look nervous as hell.

The French are first to speak, saying something of which Harry understand none of. Harry glances up at Desmond, who lifts his massive white and red head, the cobra-hood flaring a little wider. It makes the muggle soldiers visibly flinch. Then Desmond speaks, his normal voice backed by enormous draconic resonation.

Harry might be panicking a little.

"What did you say?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Desmond says and then at Harry's huff explains, "He asked if we were here alone. I said, _wouldn't you like to know._ "

Harry stares at him in disbelief. "I thought we were going to be nice."

Desmond looks at him, and though he doesn't even have eyebrows, he still somehow manages to give Harry an eyebrow.

"But you are English!" One of the British muggles spurts out in astonishment. "And that coat! You are from the Aerial Corps, aren't you?"

Harry blinks. What's wrong with his coat? He looks down at it. It's the green one he found in the shipwreck, which he's glad he pulled on before turning Desmond into a dragon – the flight would've been a lot cooler if he hadn't. It looks about right for the period, but it doesn't look like any of theirs – and it's green.

"Silence," another of the blue-clad British sailors snaps and looks at Harry with new interest. "What is your name, boy? How did your end up here and with that, too?" He eyes Desmond.

"Rude," Desmond says, mild, and turns his look at the man, who pales slightly. Desmond huffs and then looks at Harry again, his tail coming around and curling in a loose loop in front of Harry's feet, like a protective barrier.

Harry draws a breath. "My name is Harry Potter and how we ended up here doesn't matter," he says. "We want you to leave."

Merlin it sounds so juvenile and dumb said like that. The sailors obviously think so too, giving him blank, confused looks while the French whisper something amongst themselves.

"This dragon," one of the French men said in heavily accented English. "It is yours, yes? You are captain?"

Harry looks at him, confused.

"The dragon is obviously a British dragon," the British sailors in blue, officer or something, snaps. "As is his captain."

"You are stranded here, yes?" The French man asks, looking nervous and determined. "Stranded on this island yes? We can give you passage, the _Surveillante_ is big enough to bear your dragon, we think."

"Excuse me?" The British man snaps and then turns to Harry. "Young man, I am Captain Morrison of the _HMS_ _Beagle_ , of his Majesty's Navy. You are an aviator and thus fall under the ranks of His Majesty's armies – now I understand that dragon captains are automatically raised to the rank of captain, regardless of age, but you must admit that I am your superior in age and experience at least if not in rank alone. As such, I suggest we speak alone at once and figure what is going on here."

Harry stares the man helplessly for a moment and then shakes his head. "I'm – I'm not," he starts to say confusedly just as Desmond leans over and then his head rests over Harry's, a great heavy shadow with a lot of very big teeth.

"Captain," the man, dragon, says, while the men in front of them all recoil in horror. "Aerial Corps and His Majesty's armies. There's an actual armed branch of military with dragons then."

The moment of confused, terrified silence gives Harry just enough time to gather his thoughts. The British think he's one of theirs, okay. He isn't. But that, that's something. And what the man is saying, what Desmond is asking, that – yeah. Bloody hell.

"There is military with dragons in France too," the lone French man with English says quickly while the other French men say something to him urgently "The Grand Armee has many dragons, even fire breathing ones, many big dragons, I am sure they would like to meet you!"

"N-nonsense," the British man, Captain Morrison, says. " The whole world knows there is no better bred dragons than in Britain, and this dragon is quite obviously a result of superior British breeding! Young man, Captain Potter," he says quickly. "To go with the French constitutes treason, of course you wouldn't want that, now would you?"

They want Desmond, Harry realises. The same way they wanted to capture each other’s ships before, they now want to capture Desmond because he's a dragon and dragons are maybe something like ships in this – this place, this other world. They're used in military, and judging by the terrified, awed looks they're now giving Desmond, they think he's a good one, a valuable one.

"In France no one will care of treason," the French man says. "And besides, none of your ships are big enough for the dragon, it cannot even land on your decks without sticking them! The _Surveillante_ can bear the weight – and," he adds as the other French say something to him, "and we have a dragon on board already. Would you like to meet it?"

"A courier, a courier only!" Captain Morrison says. "Hardly worthy of note!"

"A dragon surely is preferable company to dragons," the French says and then the British captain says something in French, and suddenly, they're fighting. Or bickering at least, no one's pulling out weapons… yet.

Harry feels a bit like he's fallen off a train here. Desmond it still looking over him, watching and listening the sailors fighting with cold sort of interest while Harry squirms and tries to keep up – except he can't understand what they're saying. Just that they both want him and Desmond to go with them.

"Treasure!" the French says to Desmond. "We can give you lots of treasure!"

"Treasure is hardly comparable to doing your sworn duty, and besides, there is pay and prize money to be had," Captain Morrison says. "You help us bring the _Surveillante_ in and to port and captain's share of the prize goes to you, Captain Potter."

"Any prize money you might get pales in comparison to the riches you'll be given!"

Harry opens his mouth but he's not sure what to say, really. He's not sure how it ended up this way. Above him Desmond hums, noncommittal, and lifts his head.

There's a third body coming to shore, one from the burning brig – which isn't burning anymore. A rather smoky and harangued man in blue coat falls half off it and into the waters, being helped up by equally soot stained younger man.

It at least puts a pause to the arguing, as the French and the British stop to look at the men from the burned ship as they stumble forward and then into a bow.

"Sir, my thanks to you and your dragon," he says in slight wheezing voice, coughing. "You saved my ship and great number of my men and your have my most sincere gratitude. If there's anything I can do in return, please do not hesitate to ask."

Harry's brows arch and he looks up at Desmond who looks down at him.

"Him," Harry decides and points at the smoke stained man. "We're going to talk to him. _Alone._ "

"W-what?" Captain Morrison asks while the soot covered captain blinks in confusion.

"Captain Potter –" the French tries.

"He's not rude," Desmond says and grins with a maw full of teeth.

"We'll talk to him," Harry agrees determinedly.

* * *

 

So. In this place, this now pretty obviously alternate world, dragons are used in militaries. Okay, harry can see that, maybe. If dragons could be trained he could very easily imagine the Ministry and dark wizards and pretty much everyone with any intention of fighting someone wanting to ride into battle with one. But muggles using dragons? That's a bit much. That's worrying. That's… really worrying actually.

Because if here it's muggles who do dragon taming, then where are the wizards?

Harry frets over it confusedly while they wait for most of the muggles to leave, not sure what he's more worried about at this point, the muggle militaries, the lack of wizards or Desmond. He can see it on Desmond's face – he's thinking of something. And the last time he had that look on his face, he ended fighting a shark. By the shore the soot covered muggle captain is getting a hushed but firm talking to from Captain Morrison, who is obviously impressing the man with the importance of convincing Harry and Desmond to their side. What a mess.

"This is fascinating," Desmond murmurs.

"No, this is a disaster," Harry grumbles. "What are we going to do?"

"Well, if you can't think of anything else, I can set their ships on fire," Desmond suggests. "That'll get rid of the whole problem, really."

"Be serious," Harry hisses. "We can't kill them. And they think I'm part of a military, that you are, I don't even know. My dragon?"

"And you're my captain," Desmond agrees amusedly and glances at him with one enormous amber eye. "Chasing them away with fire might be the only way to get them to go, though. They both have even more to gain now, it turns out."

"Merlin's balls," Harry mutters. "I can't believe this."

"You wanted to play peacekeeper," Desmond says sympathetically. "Turns out there are consequences."

Harry sighs and sinks down to sit on the sand beside Desmond’s colossal arm, foreleg, whichever. "Alternate reality, huh," he says and looks at him. "And we're both from different ones?"

"Looks like it, yeah," Desmond agrees.

"How did we end up here?"

"Reward for doing our duties?" Desmond suggests and shrugs his wings. "However it happened, here we are now and in this situation. What do you want to do?"

Harry groans and runs a hand through his hair. "Go back a couple of hours and not do anything?" he mutters.

"Can you actually do that?" Desmond asks with interest.

"No. Not without magical devices which I don't have and don't know how to make."

"Pity," Desmond says and tucks his taloned hands or feet or whatever they are in, like a cat. "Guess we have to deal with reality then, such it is."

Which Harry had no idea what to do with. He didn't want to threaten these people, but chances are Desmond is right and it's the only way to get them to leave. Unless the last polite captain might offer something better.

"You could take their offer," Desmond comments. "Seems like they're eager to take you to Britain."

"They're eager to take you, I'm just your rider," Harry mutters.

Desmond makes a very toothy face. "Yeah, I definitely like _captain_ better. Please, don't use that word again."

Harry considers what he said and gives him a flat look. "I'm not at fault for your dirty mind, you git, but agreed."

"Fact still stands," Desmond says and nudges at him with his snout. "You could go home. To Britain."

Except it isn't home, not really. There probably aren't even any wizards here, why else are muggles minding dragons? "Would you go?" Harry asks quietly. "What would you do?"

Desmond hums, considering the boats in the shore line – who are heading back now, one staying put with the soot covered captain talking to his men. "Let's figure out when we are and what's going on," Desmond says then.

Harry looks at him curiously, but Desmond doesn't say anything else – the soot covered captain is coming towards them hesitantly, using a handkerchief to clean some of the soot off his face.

"My apologies," the man says. "I hadn't the time to freshen myself."

"Your ship caught on fire, I think you're forgiven," Desmond snorts, making the man glance up uneasily.

"I thank you for your consideration," the British captain says and then turns to Harry, offering his hand for a shake. "My name is William Laurence, still of _HMS_ _Belize_ thanks to you. Captain Potter, was it?"

"Harry Potter – and this is Desmond," Harry says, motioning to the white and red dragon while shaking Captain Laurence's hand. "I hope your ship will be alright."

"New masts and sails and bit of deck repair, and she'll be right as rain," Captain Laurence says with a smile. "I really can't thank you enough – few minutes more and the fire would have made to the gunpowder storage."

"I guess that's bad," Harry says.

"The whole thing would've gone up in flames," Desmond says, peering at the ships. "Boom."

"Yes, er. Quite," Laurence agrees and coughs. "Captain Morrison tells me you are of His Majesty's Aerial Corps?"

Harry hesitates. "I'm not," he says then. "He just assumed."

Laurence blinks. "But then –" he starts and stops and looks at Desmond hesitantly. "This dragon, Desmond, he is – your dragon?"

"You're making me sound like a pet," Desmond huffs and leans down to look at the man. Laurence swallows and goes visible paler but he stands his ground. Desmond’s hood flares. "Can you tell us the date, Captain Laurence?"

"I’d like to know too, we've been here for – a while," Harry quickly says.

"Ah, of course," Laurence says. "It's 12th of April now, in the year 1800. Can you tell me how long have you been stranded here?" He asks. "And how did you get stranded? Was there a shipwreck?"

Judging by what's sunken into the sea around the island, there were several. "Yes, er, something like that," Harry says and looks at Desmond, wondering. 1800, huh?

"We're you the only survivors?" Laurence asks sympathetically.

Harry hesitates and then nods slowly. "We, we are the only ones here," he says. If he said anything else, they'd want to meet others who didn't even exist, after all, that'd be a whole new mess and this one is tricky enough.

"Captain Morrison said that if we went with you and helped to capture the French ship, we would get prize money," Desmond says suddenly.

Harry looks at him hesitantly while Laurence blinks. "Well," the muggle captain says. "It does seem like the right way to go about it, there is no confirmable way we could take her without your help at this point, with the _Belize_ all but dead in the water as she is."

Desmond hums while Harry flails internally. Is the guy going draconic with his thinking after all – did the promise of treasure awaken something?

"And, of course," Laurence says slowly, looking a little uncomfortable as he says it. "If you are not a British dragon originally, then there is a good chance that your Captain will also get prize money for you. Your must be prodigiously valuable dragon, a heavy weight as you are and a fire breather too."

"There's something special about fire breathers?" Desmond asks quickly.

"They are of course the most devastating of dragons," Laurence says, even more uncomfortable now. "Quite valuable indeed."

"And not common, judging by all of this," Desmond says, considering. "The French sailors said their armies have other fire breathers, like it was special. You don't, do you?"

"Well, ah," Laurence hesitates while Harry gives Desmond an alarmed look.

"So I'm even more valuable to you than to the French," Desmond says. "So you'd pay more to have me."

"Well, that is to say – quite possibly, yes," Laurence stutters, starting to look very worried now.

"Desmond, what are your doing?" Harry hisses, even more alarmed now. Wasn’t the guy just saying how he wouldn't leave? Now he's all but negotiating his own sale price! Being a dragon must've gone to his head now, he's going treasure crazy.

"Gauging options," Desmond says and leans down to look at Laurence on the man's eye level. "Tell me about dragons in your army."

* * *

 

"I'm changing you back," Harry threatens once Desmond is done questioning Laurence – and there were surprisingly many questions. "The transfiguration is changing your way of thinking somehow, it's making you gold hungry or something."

Desmond shrugs his wings. "If you want them to know about magic too, sure, why not," he says. "I'm not gold hungry though."

"You were all but haggling prices!"

"Figuring out how valuable dragons are," Desmond says and gives him a look. "Dragons are military equipment here, and with the year being what is, British are in war with the French. The big one."

"Er – my muggle education was a bit spotty," Harry admits awkwardly.

"Napoleonic wars, Harry," Desmond says. "They're just around the corner, if they haven't already started. French revolutionary war is probably done already so, if things here work the same as they did where I come from, the Napoleonic wars are coming. Which makes a military dragon even more valuable."

"You’re really not selling me on the not being gold crazy thing," Harry says dubiously.

Desmond looks at him. "With what's going on and what's coming, what do you think are the chances they will just leave, what was it Laurence called me, a prime specimen of a heavy weight and a fire breather? Do you think they'd just leave something like that to waste away on some island somewhere? I'm the equivalent of a big ass bomber plane and I breathe fire in time where most ships are made of wood, something which is apparently rare too," Desmond says flatly. "I'm not sure they're going to take no for an answer here, unless it comes with the said fire. And even if we send them running, someone will probably come back later with bigger guns this time to force us."

Harry stares at him, his eyes widening. "Oh," he says and then frowns. "But if we send them running and when they come back there's no dragon here, just two blokes…?"

"Then maybe they will figure it's not worth the effort, but either way, right now…" Desmond looks at him. "This would be a damn good way to make a lot of money."

"I thought so! You are gold crazy!" Harry says and points at him. "You’re going all draconic! What happened to wanting to stay here and chill?"

Desmond hesitates and looks over to the house they built. "I – yeah, but… dragons," he says then, a little sheepishly.

Harry narrows his eyes. "Is this the finding a cause to fight for thing you were talking about?" he asks.

"I don't think so – though you gotta admit, them talking about sentient creatures like they're nothing but big horses sounded kind of bad," Desmond says and flares out his hood. "It and that. How dehumanising."

"You are human and you don't even know if other dragons are sentient," Harry says.

"You don't think they would be screaming about talking dragon if they weren't?" Desmond asks, tucking his wings in. "Either way, it's an option with some benefits, going with them. Money could get you started on a lot of things, you know. Like traveling around the world looking for a way back home."

"You don't even _want_ to go back home."

"Yeah, but you do," Desmond says, giving him a look.

Harry blows out a breath and glances back to where Laurence is standing on the shoreline, talking to his men. Couple of them are on the boat and are heading back to the ships, probably to inform the others about what Laurence had talked to them about. Scratching at his neck, Harry turns away, frowning.

He… does kind of want to know if Wizarding World is around here. Evidence suggests no, but who knows, maybe… And he does want to go home. As much as he tried to settle in here, he wants to go home more than he wants to stay.

"Would you be telling me this if you were human?" Harry asks suspiciously. "You're probably thinking all weird because of the transfiguration."

Desmond gets up, stretching like a cat. A really big winged scaly lizard cat. "Let's go beyond those trees where they can't see us, and find out."

So they do, after making sure they're not being followed or watched. Harry still takes a moment to cast a Notice-Me-Not charm, just in case, before turning to Desmond to undo the spell on him.

The man seems – different. Harry can't put a finger on how or why, but something's different about Desmond. Outwardly there's nothing different about him, he seems bigger somehow. Too big even. The transfiguration back to human is different too – it didn't look like a spell being released. It looked like dragon being compressed into human shape.

"Huh," Desmond says, looking at his hands.

"How do you feel?" Harry asks worriedly, wondering if he maybe messed up the spell somehow.

"Like a human," Desmond says and waves his fingers and then tilts his wrist. A blade flicks out from under his wrist, as per usual. "Hmm," the man says and then looks at him.

His eyes seem deeper now.

"So?" Harry asks warily. "Still think it's a good idea to go? Or are you still thinking about staying? How do you feel about gold and gemstones?"

Desmond gives him a look at that and then looks towards the house, considering. He looks a little wistful. "I don't think it's precisely good idea to go, but of the available options it’s not the worst one," he says. "If it wasn't for the whole dragon thing, I wouldn't go, probably, but – I'm curious now," he admits. "This is an alternate history with dragons. How cool is that?"

Harry gives him a look. "Honestly didn't think you cared about how cool things are," he mutters.

"Well, that was before you turned me into a dragon, and that was pretty cool," Desmond says and looks at him. "Can you turn yourself into a dragon?"

"It's not the same," Harry says. "And it shouldn't even work like this for you. Turning someone into an animal, they're supposed to become animals inside out, they aren't, like… still humans on the inside. How well you’re keeping your mind is kind of freaky, actually, that's not how this should work."

Desmond looks a little pleased at that. "Guess I'm just special."

"I'm gonna turn you into a toad, see how special you feel after that," Harry mutters and turns towards the ships. "What happens to the French if we join the British? Will they be killed?"

"No, I don't think so," Desmond says. "The British will take their ship, the crew will be broken up between the three ships and kept as prisoners until they can be taken to port and ransomed off, and British will put a prize crew on the French ship. Unless they're all monsters, it's all very gentlemanly in this time."

"You know a lot about this time," Harry comments.

"One of my ancestors lived a bit before this," Desmond says and shrugs. "He did some naval combat every now and then. Some of it stuck with me, I guess."

"Uh-huh," Harry says. "So, uh… are we going, then?"

"I don't know, are we?" Desmond asks.

"Asked you first."

"Asked you second, and you're the one who wants to go and who wants to save the world," Desmond shrugs. "I'm fine either way, just know that if we stay, there will so be trouble probably. Unless we left the island and went somewhere else, maybe."

"Could we leave?" Harry asks dubiously.

"Why not? Just build a better raft and go," Desmond shrugs. "Though if we're staying in the Caribbean, I don't see why bother, since we got a house and water source here and everything."

Harry gives him an unimpressed look. "You are the most indecisive bloke I've ever met. What do you want to do, Desmond? And don't ask me what I want to do, I want to hear what you want."

Desmond throws him a look. "And then make a decision based on it? How’s that any more decisive?"

Harry tries to kick him in the shin, but of course he dances away from it. Bloody Assassins. "Argh. Just tell me!"

Desmond grins, utterly unapologetic. "We could flip a coin for it?" he offers.

Harry draws a breath. "You know what, alright, fine. Bloody hell, let's decide our future with a coin toss, why not."

They get one of the golden coins they salvaged from the shipwreck.

"Tails, we go, heads, we stay," Harry says and Desmond shrugs, shoving his hands to his pockets. Harry nods and flips the coin, catching it mid air and slamming it on the back of his hand. Together, they eye the results. Then they share a look.

"Best two out of three?"

It ends up taking nine coin flips to make the final decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How to make decisions when the universe isn't throwing you clues about your destiny anymore.
> 
> Also Laurence and Desmond are pretty much the same age here, 26. Hmm
> 
> >:3c


End file.
